)AVID  GRAHAM  PHILLIPS 


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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

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SANTA     CRUZ 


! 


PRICE  SHE  PAID 


David  Graham  Phillips 


PRICE   SHE   PAID 


A    NOVEL 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1911, 1912,  by  International  Magazine  Company 


Published,  June,   1912 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


HENRY  GOWER  was  dead  at  sixty-one  —  the  end  of 
a  lifelong  fraud  which  never  had  been  suspected,  and 
never  would  be.  With  the  world,  with  his  acquaint 
ances  and  neighbors,  with  his  wife  and  son  and 
daughter,  he  passed  as  a  generous,  warm-hearted, 
good-natured  man,  ready  at  all  times  to  do  anything 
to  help  anybody,  incapable  of  envy  or  hatred  or  mean 
ness.  In  fact,  not  once  in  all  his  days  had  he  ever 
thought  or  done  a  single  thing  except  for  his  own 
comfort.  Like  all  intensely  selfish  people  who  are  wise, 
he  was  cheerful  and  amiable,  because  that  was  the 
way  to  be  healthy  and  happy  and  to  have  those  around 
one  agreeable  and  in  the  mood  to  do  what  one  wished 
them  to  do.  He  told  people,  not  the  truth,  not  the 
unpleasant  thing  that  might  help  them,  but  what  they 
wished  to  hear.  His  family  lived  in  luxurious  comfort 
only  because  he  himself  was  fond  of  luxurious  comfort. 
His  wife  and  his  daughter  dressed  fashionably  and 
went  about  and  entertained  in  the  fashionable,  ex 
pensive  way  only  because  that  was  the  sort  of  life 
that  gratified  his  vanity.  He  lived  to  get  what  he 
wanted;  he  got  it  every  day  and  every  hour  of  a  life 

1 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


into  which  no  rain  ever  fell ;  he  died,  honored,  respected, 
beloved,  and  lamented. 

I  The  clever  trick  he  had  played  upon  his  fellow  be 
ings  came  very  near  to  discovery  a  few  days  after 
his  death.  His  widow  and  her  son  and  daughter-in-law 
and  daughter  were  in  the  living-room  of  the  charming 
house  at  Hanging  Rock,  near  New  York,  alternating 
between  sorrowings  over  the  dead  man  and  plannings 
for  the  future.  Said  the  widow : 

"  If  Henry  had  only  thought  what  would  become  of 
us  if  he  were  taken  away ! " 

"  If  he  had  saved  even  a  small  part  of  what  he  made 
every  year  from  the  time  he  was  twenty-six  —  for  he 
always  made  a  big  income,"  said  his  son,  Frank. 

"  But  he  was  so  generous,  so  soft-hearted ! "  ex 
claimed  the  widow.  "  He  could  deny  us  nothing." 

"  He  couldn't  bear  seeing  us  with  the  slightest  wish 
ungratified,"  said  Frank. 

"  He  was  the  best  father  that  ever  lived ! "  cried  the 
daughter,  Mildred. 

And  Mrs.  Gower  the  elder  and  Mrs.  Gower  the 
younger  wept;  and  Mildred  turned  away  to  hide  the 
emotion  distorting  her  face;  and  Frank  stared  gloomily 
at  the  carpet  and  sighed.  The  hideous  secret  of  the 
life  of  duplicity  was  safe,  safe  forever. 

In  fact,  Henry  Gower  had  often  thought  of  the  fate 
of  his  family  if  he  should  die.  In  the  first  year  of 
his  married  life,  at  a  time  when  passion  for  a  beautiful 
bride  was  almost  sweeping  him  into  generous  thought, 
he  had  listened  for  upward  of  an  hour  to  the  eloquence 
of  a  life  insurance  agent.  Then  the  agent,  misled  by 

2 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Gower's  effusively  generous  and  unselfish  expressions, 
had  taken  a  false  tack.  He  had  descanted  upon  the 
supreme  satisfaction  that  would  be  felt  by  a  dying  man 
as  he  reflected  how  his  young  widow  would  be  left  in 
affluence.  He  made  a  vivid  picture;  Gower  saw  — 
saw  his  bride  happier  after  his  death  than  she  had  been 
during  his  life,  and  attracting  a  swarm  of  admirers 
by  her  beauty,  well  set  off  in  becoming  black,  and  by 
her  independent  income.  The  generous  impulse  then 
and  there  shriveled  to  its  weak  and  shallow  roots.  With 
tears  in  his  kind,  clear  eyes  he  thanked  the  agent  and 
said: 

"  You  have  convinced  me.  You  need  say  no  more. 
I'll  send  for  you  in  a  few  days." 

The  agent  never  got  into  his  presence  again. 
Gower  lived  up  to  his  income,  secure  in  the  knowledge 
that  his  ability  as  a  lawyer  made  him  certain  of  plenty 
of  money  as  long  as  he  should  live.  But  it  would  show 
an  utter  lack  of  comprehension  of  his  peculiar  species 
of  character  to  imagine  that  he  let  himself  into  the 
secret  of  his  own  icy-heartedness  by  ceasing  to  think 
of  the  problem  of  his  wife  and  two  children  without 
him  to  take  care  of  them.  On  the  contrary,  he  thought 
of  it  every  day,  and  planned  what  he  would  do  about 
it  —  to-morrow.  And  for  his  delay  he  had  excellent 
convincing  excuses.  Did  he  not  take  care  of  his 
naturally  robust  health?  Would  he  not  certainly  out 
live  his  wife,  who  was  always  doctoring  more  or  less? 
Frank  would  be  able  to  take  care  of  himself;  anyhow, 
it  was  not  well  to  bring  a  boy  up  to  expectations,  be 
cause  every  man  should  be  self-supporting  and  self- 

3 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


reliant.  As  for  Mildred,  why,  with  her  beauty  and  her 
cleverness  she  could  not  but  make  a  brilliant  marriage. 
Really,  there  was  for  him  no  problem  of  an  orphaned 
family's  future ;  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  deny 
himself  any  comfort  or  luxury,  or  his  vanity  any  of 
the  titillations  that  come  from  social  display. 

That  one  of  his  calculations  which  was  the  most  vital 
and  seemed  the  surest  proved  to  be  worthless.  It  is 
not  the  weaklings  who  die,  after  infancy  and  youth, 
but  the  strong,  healthy  men  and  women.  The  weak 
lings  have  to  look  out  for  themselves,  receive  ample 
warning  in  the  disastrous  obvious  effects  of  the  slight 
est  imprudence.  The  robust,  even  the  wariest  of  them, 
even  the  Henry  Gowers,  overestimate  and  overtax  their 
strength.  Gower's  downfall  was  champagne.  He 
could  not  resist  a  bottle  of  it  for  dinner  every  night. 
As  so  often  happens,  the  collapse  of  the  kidneys  came 
without  any  warning  that  a  man  of  powerful  constitu 
tion  would  deem  worthy  of  notice.  By  the  time  the 
doctor  began  to  suspect  the  gravity  of  his  trouble  he 
was  too  far  gone. 

Frank,  candidly  greedy  and  selfish  — "  Such  a  con 
trast  to  his  father !  "  everyone  said  —  was  married  to 
the  prettiest  girl  in  Hanging  Rock  and  had  a  satis 
factory  law  practice  in  New  York.  His  income  was 
about  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  But  his  wife  had  tastes 
as  extravagant  as  his  own ;  and  Hanging  Rock  is  one 
of  those  suburbs  of  New  York  where  gather  well-to-do 
middle-class  people  to  live  luxuriously  and  to  delude 
each  other  and  themselves  with  the  notion  that  they  are 
fashionable,  rich  New  Yorkers  who  prefer  to  live  in 

4 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  country  "like  the  English."  Thus,  Henry 
Gower's  widow  and  daughter  could  count  on  little  help 
from  Frank  —  and  they  knew  it. 

"  You  and  Milly  will  have  to  move  to  some  less  ex 
pensive  place  than  Hanging  Rock,"  said  Frank  —  it 
was  the  living-room  conference  a  few  days  after  the 
funeral. 

Mildred  flushed  and  her  eyes  flashed.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  speak  —  closed  them  again  with  the  angry 
retort  unuttered.  After  all,  Frank  was  her  mother's 
and  her  sole  dependence.  They  could  hope  for  little 
from  him,  but  nothing  must  be  said  that  would  give 
him  and  his  mean,  selfish  wife  a  chance  to  break  with 
them  and  refuse  to  do  anything  whatever. 

"And  Mildred  must  get  married,"  said  Natalie. 
In  Hanging  Rock  most  of  the  girls  and  many  of  the 
boys  had  given  names  taken  from  Burke's  Peerage,  the 
Almanac  de  Gotha,  and  fashionable  novels. 

Again  Mildred  flushed;  but  her  eyes  did  not  flash, 
neither  did  she  open  her  lips  to  speak.  The  little  re 
mark  of  her  sister-in-law,  apparently  so  harmless  and 
sensible,  was  in  fact  a  poisoned  arrow.  For  Mildred 
was  twenty-three,  had  been  "  out "  five  years,  and  was 
not  even  in  the  way  to  become  engaged.  She  and  every 
one  had  assumed  from  her  lovely  babyhood  that  she 
would  marry  splendidly,  would  marry  wealth  and  social 
position.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Had  she  not 
beauty?  Had  she  not  family  and  position?  Had  she 
not  style  and  cleverness?  Yet  —  five  years  out  and 
not  a  "  serious  "  proposal.  An  impudent  poor  fellow 
with  no  prospects  had  asked  her.  An  impudent  rich 

5 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


man  from  fashionable  New  York  had  hung  after  her 
—  and  had  presently  abandoned  whatever  dark  proj 
ects  he  may  have  been  concealing  and  had  married  in 
his  own  setj  "  as  they  always  do,  the  miserable  snobs," 
raved  Mrs.  Gower,  who  had  been  building  high  upon 
those  lavish  outpourings  of  candy,  flowers,  and  automo 
bile  rides.  Mildred,  however,  had  accepted  the  defec 
tion  more  philosophically.  She  had  had  enough  van 
ity  to  like  the  attentions  of  the  rich  and  fashionable 
New  Yorker,  enough  good  sense  to  suspect,  perhaps 
not  definitely,  what  those  attentions  meant,  but  cer 
tainly  what  they  did  not  mean.  Also,  in  the  back  of 
her  head  had  been  an  intention  to  refuse  Stanley  Baird, 
if  by  chance  he  should  ask  her.  Was  there  any  sub 
stance  to  this  intention,  sprung  from  her  disliking 
the  conceited,  self-assured  snob  as  much  as  she  liked 
his  wealth  and  station?  Perhaps  not.  Who  can 
say?  At  any  rate,  may  we  not  claim  credit  for  our 
good  intentions  —  so  long  as,  even  through  lack  of  op 
portunity,  we  have  not  stultified  them? 

With  every  natural  advantage  apparently,  Mildred's 
failure  to  catch  a  husband  seemed  to  be  somehow  her 
own  fault.  Other  girls,  less  endowed  than  she,  were 
marrying,  were  marrying  fairly  well.  Why,  then,  was 
Mildred  lagging  in  the  market? 

There  may  have  been  other  reasons,  reasons  of  ac 
cident  —  for,  in  the  higher  class  matrimonial  market, 
few  are  called  and  fewer  chosen.  There  was  one  reason 
not  accidental;  Hanging  Rock  was  no  place  for  a  girl 
so  superior  as  was  Mildred  Gower  to  find  a  fitting 
husband.  As  has  been  hinted,  Hanging  Rock  was  one 

6 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


of  those  upper-middle-class  colonies  where  splurge  and 
social  ambition  dominate  the  community  life.  In  such 
colonies  the  young  men  are  of  two  classes  —  those  be 
neath  such  a  girl  as  Mildred,  and  those  who  had  the 
looks,  the  manners,  the  intelligence,  and  the  prospects 
to  justify  them  in  looking  higher  socially  —  in  looking 
among  the  very  rich  and  really  fashionable.  In  the 
Hanging  Rock  sort  of  community,  having  all  the  snob 
bishness  of  Fifth  Avenue,  Back  Bay,  and  Rittenhouse 
Square,  with  the  added  torment  of  the  snobbishness 
being  perpetually  ungratified  —  in  such  communities, 
beneath  a  surface  reeking  culture  and  idealistic  f olderol, 
there  is  a  coarse  and  brutal  materialism,  a  passion  for 
money,  for  luxury,  for  display,  that  equals  aristocratic 
societies  at  their  worst.  No  one  can  live  for  a  winter, 
much  less  grow  up,  in  such  a  place  without  becoming 
saturated  with  sycophantry.  Thus,  only  by  some  im 
possible  combination  of  chances  could  there  have  been 
at  Hanging  Rock  a  young  man  who  would  have  ap 
preciated  Mildred  and  have  had  the  courage  of 
his  appreciation.  This  combination  did  not  happen. 
In  Mildred's  generation  and  set  there  were  only  the 
two  classes  of  men  noted  above.  The  men  of  the  one 
of  them  which  could  not  have  attracted  her  accepted 
their  fate  of  mating  with  second-choice  females  to  whom 
they  were  themselves  second  choice.  The  men  of  the 
other  class  rarely  appeared  at  Hanging  Rock  func 
tions,  hung  about  the  rich  people  in  New  York,  Newport, 
and  on  Long  Island,  and  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  taking  a  Hanging  Rock  society  girl  to  wife  as  of 
exchanging  hundred-dollar  bills  for  twenty-five-cent 

7 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


pieces.  Having  attractions  acceptable  in  the  best 
markets,  they  took  them  there.  Hanging  Rock  de 
nounced  them  as  snobs,  for  Hanging  Rock  was  virtu 
ously  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  snobbishness  —  we 
human  creatures  being  never  so  effective  as  when  as 
sailing  in  others  the  vice  or  weakness  we  know  from 
lifelong,  intimate,  internal  association  with  it.  But 
secretly  the  successfully  ambitious  spurners  of  that 
suburban  society  were  approved,  were  envied.  And 
Hanging  Rock  was  most  gracious  to  them  whenever 
it  got  the  chance. 

In  her  five  years  of  social  life  Mildred  had  gone 
only  with  the  various  classes  of  fashionable  people, 
had  therefore  known  only  the  men  who  are  full  of  the 
poison  of  snobbishness.  She  had  been  born  and  bred 
in  an  environment  as  impregnated  with  that  poison 
as  the  air  of  a  kitchen-garden  with  onions.  She  knew 
nothing  else.  The  secret  intention  to  refuse  Stanley 
Baird,  should  he  propose,  was  therefore  the  more 
astonishing  —  and  the  more  significant.  From  time  to 
time  in  any  given  environment  you  will  find  some  iso 
lated  person,  some  personality,  with  a  trait  wholly 
foreign  and  out  of  place  there.  Now  it  is  a  soft  voice 
and  courteous  manners  in  a  slum;  again  it  is  a  longing 
for  a  life  of  freedom  and  equality  in  a  member  of  a 
royal  family  that  has  known  nothing  but  sordid  slavery 
for  centuries.  Or,  in  the  petty  conventionality  of  a 
prosperous  middle-  or  upper-class  community  you 
come  upon  one  who  dreams  —  perhaps  vaguely  but 
still  longingly  —  of  an  existence  where  love  and  ideas 
shall  elevate  and  glorify  life.  In  spite  of  her  training, 

8 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


in  spite  of  the  teaching  and  example  of  all  about  her 
from  the  moment  of  her  opening  her  eyes  upon  the 
world,  Mildred  Gower  at  twenty-three  still  retained 
something  of  these  dream  flowers  sown  in  the  soil  of 
her  naturally  good  mind  by  some  book  or  play  or  per 
haps  by  some  casually  read  and  soon  forgotten  article 
in  magazine  or  newspaper.  We  have  the  habit  of 
thinking  only  weeds  produce  seeds  that  penetrate  and 
prosper  everywhere  and  anywhere.  The  truth  is  that 
fine  plants  of  all  kinds,  vegetable,  fruit,  and  flower  of 
rarest  color  and  perfume,  have  this  same  hardiness  and 
fecundity.  Pull  away  at  the  weeds  in  your  garden 
for  a  while,  and  see  if  this  is  not  so.  Though  you  may 
plant  nothing,  you  will  be  amazed  at  the  results  if  you 
but  clear  a  little  space  of  its  weeds  —  which  you  have 
been  planting  and  cultivating. 

Mildred  —  woman  fashion  —  regarded  it  as  a  re 
proach  upon  her  that  she  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  mak 
ing  the  marriage  everyone,  including  herself,  predicted 
for  her  and  expected  of  her.  On  the  contrary,  it  was 
the  most  savage  indictment  possible  of  the  marriage 
able  and  marrying  men  who  had  met  her  —  of  their 
stupidity,  of  their  short-sighted  and  mean-souled  cal 
culation,  of  their  lack  of  courage  —  the  courage  to 
take  what  they,  as  men  of  flesh  and  blood  wanted,  in 
stead  of  what  their  snobbishness  ordered.  And  if 
Stanley  Baird,  the  nearest  to  a  flesh-and-blood  man  of 
any  who  had  known  her,  had  not  been  so  profoundly 
afraid  of  his  fashionable  mother  and  of  his  sister,  the 
Countess  of  Waring  —  But  he  was  profoundly  afraid 
of  them;  so,  it  is  idle  to  speculate  about  him. 

9 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


What  did  men  see  when  they  looked  at  Mildred 
Gower?  Usually,  when  men  look  at  a  woman,  they 
have  a  hazy,  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant,  sense  of 
something  feminine.  That,  and  nothing  more.  After 
ward,  through  some  whim  or  some  thrust  from  chance 
they  may  see  in  her,  or  fancy  they  see  in  her,  the  thing 
feminine  that  their  souls  —  it  is  always  "  soul  " —  most 
yearns  after.  But  just  at  first  glance,  so  colorless  or 
conventionally  colored  is  the  usual  human  being,  the 
average  woman  —  indeed  every  woman  but  she  who  is 
exceptional  —  creates  upon  man  the  mere  impression  of 
pleasant  or  unpleasant  petticoats.  In  the  exceptional 
woman  something  obtrudes.  She  has  astonishing  hair, 
or  extraordinary  eyes,  or  a  mouth  that  seems  to  draw  a 
man  like  a  magnet ;  or  it  is  the  allure  of  a  peculiar 
smile  or  of  a  figure  whose  sinuosities  as  she  moves 
seem  to  cause  a  corresponding  wave-disturbance  in 
masculine  nerves.  Further,  the  possession  of  one  of 
these  signal  charms  usually  causes  all  her  charms  to 
have  more  than  ordinary  potency.  The  sight  of  the 
man  is  so  bewitched  by  the  one  potent  charm  that  he 
sees  the  whole  woman  under  a  spell. 

Mildred  Gower,  of  the  medium  height  and  of  a 
slender  and  well-formed  figure,  had  a  face  of  the  kind 
that  is  called  lovely;  and  her  smile,  sweet,  dreamy, 
revealing  white  and  even  teeth,  gave  her  loveliness  deli 
cate  animation.  She  had  an  abundance  of  hair,  neither 
light  nor  dark;  she  had  a  fine  clear  skin.  Her  eyes, 
graj  and  rather  serious  and  well  set  under  long  straight 
brows,  gave  her  a  look  of  honesty  and  intelligence. 
But  the  charm  that  won  men,  her  charm  of  charms, 

10 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


was  her  mouth  —  mobile,  slightly  pouted,  not  too  nar 
row,  of  a  wonderful,  vividly  healthy  and  vital  red.  She 
had  beauty,  she  had  intelligence.  But  it  was  impos 
sible  for  a  man  to  think  of  either,  once  his  glance  had 
been  caught  by  those  expressive,  inviting  lips  of  hers, 
so  young,  so  fresh,  with  their  ever-changing,  ever- 
fascinating  line  expressing  in  a  thousand  ways  the 
passion  and  poetry  of  the  kiss. 

Of  all  the  men  who  had  admired  her  and  had  edged 
away  because  they  feared  she  would  bewitch  them  into 
forgetting  what  the  world  calls  "  good  common  sense  " 
—  of  all  those  men  only  one  had  suspected  the  real  rea 
son  for  her  physical  power  over  men.  All  but  Stanley 
Baird  had  thought  themselves  attracted  because  she 
was  so  pretty  or  so  stylish  or  so  clever  and  amusing  to 
talk  with.  Baird  had  lived  intelligently  enough  to 
learn  that  feminine  charm  is  never  general,  is  always 
specific.  He  knew  it  was  Mildred  Gower's  lips  that 
haunted,  that  frightened  ambitious  men  away,  that 
sent  men  who  knew  they  hadn't  a  ghost  of  a  chance 
with  her  discontentedly  back  to  the  second-choice 
women  who  alone  were  available  for  them.  Fortu 
nately  for  Mildred,  Stanley  Baird,  too  wise  to  flatter 
a  woman  discriminatingly,  did  not  tell  her  the  secret 
of  her  fascination.  If  he  had  told  her,  she  would  no 
doubt  have  tried  to  train  and  to  use  it  —  and  so  would 
inevitably  have  lost  it. 

To  go  on  with  that  important  conference  in  the  sit 
ting-room  in  the  handsome,  roomy  house  of  the  Growers 
at  Hanging  Rock,  Frank  Gower  eagerly  seized  upon  his 
wife's  subtly  nasty  remark.  "  I  don't  see  why  in 

11 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


thunder  you  haven't  married,  Milly,"  said  he.     "  You've 
had  every  chance,  these  last  four  or  five  years." 

"  And  it'll  be  harder  now,"  moaned  her  mother. 
"  For  it  looks  as  though  we  were  going  to  be  wretchedly 
poor.  And  poverty  is  so  repulsive." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Mildred,  "  that  giving  me  the 
idea  that  I  must  marry  right  away  will  make  it  easier 
for  me  to  marry?  Everyone  who  knows  us  knows  our 
circumstances."  She  looked  significantly  at  Frank's 
wife,  who  had  been  wailing  through  Hanging  Rock 
the  woeful  plight  of  her  dead  father-in-law's  family. 
The  young  Mrs.  Gower  blushed  and  glanced  away. 
"  And,"  Mildred  went  on,  "  everyone  is  saying  that  I 
must  marry  at  once  —  that  there's  nothing  else  for  me 
to  do."  She  smiled  bitterly.  "  When  I  go  into  the 
street  again  I  shall  see  nothing  but  flying  men.  And 
no  man  would  come  to  call  unless  he  brought  a  chaperon 
and  a  witness  with  him." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  frivolous  ?  "  reproached  her 
mother. 

Mildred  was  used  to  being  misunderstood  by  her 
mother,  who  had  long  since  been  made  hopelessly  dull 
by  the  suffocating  life  she  led  and  by  pain  from  her 
feet,  which  never  left  her  at  ease  for  a  moment  except 
when  she  had  them  soaking  in  cold  water.  Mrs.  Gower 
had  been  born  with  ordinary  feet,  neither  ugly  nor 
pretty  and  entirely  fit  for  the  uses  for  which  nature 
intended  feet.  She  had  spoiled  them  by  wearing  shoes 
to  make  them  look  smaller  and  slimmer  than  they  were. 
In  steady  weather  she  was  plaintive;  in  changeable 
weather  she  varied  between  irritable  and  violent. 

12 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Said  Mildred  to  her  brother:  "How  much  —  Just 
how  much  is  there?  " 

"  I  can't  say  exactly,"  replied  her  brother,  who  had 
not  yet  solved  to  his  satisfaction  the  moral  problem  of 
how  much  of  the  estate  he  ought  to  allow  his  mother 
and  sister  and  how  much  he  ought  to  claim  for  himself 
—  in  such  a  way  that  the  claim  could  not  be  dis 
puted. 

Mildred  looked  fixedly  at  him.  He  showed  his  uneasi 
ness  not  by  glancing  away,  but  by  the  appearance  of 
a  certain  hard  defiance  in  his  eyes.  Said  she: 

"  What  is  the  very  most  we  can  hope  for?  " 

A  silence.  Her  mother  broke  it.  "  Mildred,  how 
can  you  talk  of  those  things  —  already  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mildred.  "Perhaps  be 
cause  it's  got  to  be  done." 

This  seemed  to  them  all  —  and  to  herself  —  a  lame 
excuse  for  such  apparent  hardness  of  heart.  Her 
father  had  always  been  so  tender-hearted  —  had  never 
spoken  of  money,  or  encouraged  his  family  in  speak 
ing  of  it. 

A  long  and  painful  silence.  Then,  the  widow 
abruptly : 

"  You're  sure,  Frank,  there's  no  insurance  ?  " 

"  Father  always  said  that  you  disliked  the  idea," 
replied  her  son ;  "  that  you  thought  insurance  looked 
like  your  calculating  on  his  death." 

Under  her  husband's  adroit  prompting  Mrs.  Gower 
had  discovered  such  a  view  of  insurance  in  her  brain. 
She  now  recalled  expressing  it  —  and  regretted.  But 
she  was  silenced.  She  tried  to  take  her  mind  off  the  sub- 

13 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ject  of  money.  But,  like  Mildred,  she  could  not.  The 
thought  of  imminent  poverty  was  nagging  at  them  like 
toothache.  "  There'll  be  enough  for  a  year  or  so  ?  " 
she  said,  timidly  interrogative. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Frank. 

Mildred  was  eying  him  fixedly  again.  Said  she: 
"  Have  you  found  anything  at  all  ?  " 

"  He  had  about  eight  thousand  dollars  in  bank," 
said  Frank.  "  But  most  of  it  will  go  for  the  pressing 
debts." 

"  But  how  did  he  expect  to  live?  "  urged  Mildred. 

"  Yes,  there  must  have  been  something,"  said  her 
mother. 

"  Of  course,  there's  his  share  of  the  unsettled  and 
unfinished  business  of  the  firm,"  admitted  Frank. 

"  How  much  will  that  be  ?  "  persisted  Mildred. 

"  I  can't  tell,  offhand,"  said  Frank,  with  virtuous 
reproach.  "  My  mind's  been  on  —  other  things." 

Henry  Gower's  widow  was  not  without  her  share  of 
instinctive  shrewdness.  Neither  had  she,  unobservant 
though  she  was,  been  within  sight  of  her  son's 
character  for  twenty-eight  years  without  having 
unconfessed,  unformed  misgivings  concerning  it. 
"  You  mustn't  bother  about  these  things  now,  Frank 
dear,"  said  she.  "  I'll  get  my  brother  to  look  into 
it." 

"  That  won't  be  necessary,"  hastily  said  Frank.  "  I 
don't  want  any  rival  lawyer  peeping  into  our  firm's  af 
fairs." 

"  My  brother  Wharton  is  the  soul  of  honor,"  said 
Mrs.  Gower,  the  elder,  with  dignity.  "  You  are  too 

14 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


young-  to  take  all  the  responsibility  of  settling  the 
estate.  Yes,  I'll  send  for  Wharton  to-morrow." 

"  It'll  look  as  though  you  didn't  trust  me,"  said 
Frank  sourly. 

"  We  mustn't  do  anything  to  start  the  gossips  in 
this  town,"  said  his  wife,  assisting. 

"  Then  send  for  him  yourself,  Frank,"  said  Mildred, 
"  and  give  him  charge  of  the  whole  matter." 

Frank  eyed  her  furiously.  "  How  ashamed  father 
would  be ! "  exclaimed  he. 

But  this  solemn  invoking  of  the  dead  man's  spirit 
was  uneffectual.  The  specter  of  poverty  was  too  in 
sistent,  too  terrible.  Said  the  widow: 

"  I'm  sure,  in  the  circumstances,  my  dear  dead  hus 
band  would  want  me  to  get  help  from  someone  older 
and  more  experienced." 

And  Frank,  guilty  of  conscience  and  an  expert  in 
the  ways  of  conventional  and  highly  moral  rascality, 
ceased  to  resist.  His  wife,  scenting  danger  to  their 
getting  the  share  that  "  rightfully  belongs  to  the  son, 
especially  when  he  has  been  the  brains  of  the  firm  for 
several  years,"  made  angry  and  indiscreet  battle  for  no 
outside  interference.  The  longer  she  talked  the  firmer 
the  widow  and  the  daughter  became,  not  only  because 
she  clarified  suspicions  that  had  been  too  hazy  to 
take  form,  but  also  because  they  disliked  her  intensely. 
The  following  day  Wharton  Conover  became  unoffi 
cial  administrator.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  baffling 
Frank  Gower's  half-hearted  and  clumsy  efforts  to 
hide  two  large  fees  due  the  dead  man's  estate.  He 
discovered  clear  assets  amounting  in  all  to  sixty- 

15 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


three  thousand  dollars,  most  of  it  available  within  a  few 
months. 

"  As  you  have  the  good-will  of  the  firm  and  as  your 
mother  and  sister  have  only  what  can  be  realized  in 
cash,"  said  he  to  Frank,  "  no  doubt  you  won't  insist 
on  your  third." 

"  I've  got  to  consider  my  wife,"  said  Frank.  "  I 
can't  do  as  I'd  like." 

"  You  are  going  to  insist  on  your  third  ?  "  said  Con- 
over,  with  an  accent  that  made  Frank  quiver. 

"  I  can't  do  otherwise,"  said  he  in  a  dogged,  shamed 
way. 

"Urn,"  said  Conover.  "Then,  on  behalf  of  my 
sister  and  her  daughter  I'll  have  to  insist  on  a  more 
detailed  accounting  than  you  have  been  willing  to  give 
—  and  on  the  production  of  that  small  book  bound  in 
red  leather  which  disappeared  from  my  brother-in-law's 
desk  the  afternoon  of  his  death." 

A  wave  of  rage  and  fear  surged  up  within  Frank 
Gower  and  crashed  against  the  seat  of  his  life.  For 
days  thereafter  he  was  from  time  to  time  seized  with 
violent  spasms  of  trembling;  years  afterward  he  was 
attributing  premature  weaknesses  of  old  age  to  the 
effects  of  that  moment  of  horror.  His  uncle's  words 
came  as  a  sudden,  high  shot  climax  to  weeks  of  ex 
asperating  peeping  and  prying  and  questioning,  of 
sneer  and  insinuation.  Conover  had  been  only  moder 
ately  successful  at  the  law,  had  lost  clients  to  Frank's 
father,  had  been  beaten  when  they  were  on  opposite 
sides.  He  hated  the  father  with  the  secret,  hypocritical 
hatred  of  the  highly  moral  and  religious  man.  He  de- 

16 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


spised  the  son.  It  is  not  often  that  a  Christian  gentle 
man  has  such  an  opportunity  to  combine  justice  and 
revenge,  to  feed  to  bursting  an  ancient  grudge,  the 
while  conscious  that  he  is  but  doing  his  duty. 

Said  Frank,  when  he  was  able  to  speak :  "  You  have 
been  listening  to  the  lies  of  some  treacherous  clerk 
here." 

"  Don't  destroy  that  little  book,"  proceeded  Conover 
tranquilly.  "  We  can  prove  that  you  took  it." 

Young  Gower  rose.  "  I  must  decline  to  have  any 
thing  further  to  say  to  you,  sir,"  said  he.  "  You  will 
leave  this  office,  and  you  will  not  be  admitted  here  again 
unless  you  come  with  proper  papers  as  administrator." 

Conover  smiled  with  cold  satisfaction  and  departed. 
There  followed  a  series  of  quarrels  —  between  Frank 
and  his  sister,  between  Frank  and  his  mother,  between 
Frank's  wife  and  his  mother,  between  Mildred  and  her 
mother,  between  the  mother  and  Conover.  Mrs.  Gower 
was  suspicious  of  her  son;  but  she  knew  her  brother 
for  a  pinchpenny,  exacting  the  last  drop  of  what  he 
regarded  as  his  own.  And  she  discovered  that,  if  she 
authorized  him  to  act  as  administrator  for  her,  he  could 
—  and  beyond  question  would  —  take  a  large  share  of 
the  estate.  The  upshot  was  that  Frank  paid  over  to 
his  mother  and  sister  forty-seven  thousand  dollars,  and 
his  mother  and  her  brother  stopped  speaking  to  each 
other. 

"  I  see  that  you  have  turned  over  all  your  money  to 
mother,"  said  Frank  to  Mildred  a  few  days  after  the 
settlement. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mildred.  She  was  in  a  mood  of 

17 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


high  scorn  for  sordidness  —  a  mood  induced  by  the 
spectacle  of  the  shameful  manners  of  Conover,  Frank, 
and  his  wife. 

"  Do  you  think  that's  wise  ?  "  suggested  Frank. 

"  I  think  it's  decent,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  not  live  to  regret  it,"  said  her 
brother. 

Neither  Mrs.  Gower  nor  her  daughter  had  ever  had 
any  experience  in  the  care  of  money.  To  both  forty- 
seven  thousand  dollars  seemed  a  fortune  —  forty-seven 
thousand  dollars  in  cash  in  the  bank,  ready  to  issue 
forth  and  do  their  bidding  at  the  mere  writing  of  a 
few  figures  and  a  signature  on  a  piece  of  paper.  In 
a  sense  they  knew  that  for  many  years  the  family's 
annual  expenses  had  ranged  between  forty  and  fifty 
thousand,  but  in  the  sense  of  actuality  they  knew 
nothing  about  it  —  a  state  of  affairs  common  enough 
in  families  where  the  man  is  in  absolute  control  and 
spends  all  he  makes.  Money  always  had  been  forth 
coming;  therefore  money  always  would  be  forthcom 
ing. 

The  mourning  and  the  loss  of  the  person  who  had 
filled  and  employed  their  lives  caused  the  widow  and 
the  daughter  to  live  very  quietly  during  the  succeeding 
year.  They  spent  only  half  of  their  capital.  For 
reasons  of  selfish  and  far-sighted  prudence  which  need 
no  detailing  Frank  moved  away  to  New  York  within 
six  months  of  his  father's  death  and  reduced  communi 
cation  between  himself  and  wife  and  his  mother  and 
sister  to  a  frigid  and  rapidly  congealing  minimum. 
He  calculated  that  by  the  time  their  capital  was  con- 

18 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


sumed  they  would  have  left  no  feeling  of  claim  upon 
him  or  he  feeling  of  duty  toward  them. 

It  was  not  until  eighteen  months  after  her  father's 
death,  when  the  total  capital  was  sunk  to  less  than  fif 
teen  thousand  dollars,  that  Mildred  awakened  to  the 
truth  of  their  plight.  A  few  months  at  most,  and 
they  would  have  to  give  up  that  beautiful  house  which 
had  been  her  home  all  her  life.  She  tried  to  grasp 
the  meaning  of  the  facts  as  her  intelligence  presented 
them  to  her,  but  she  could  not.  She  had  no  practical 
training  whatever.  She  had  been  brought  up  as  a  rich 
man's  child,  to  be  married  to  a  rich  man,  and  never  to 
know  anything  of  the  material  details  of  life  beyond 
what  was  necessary  in  managing  servants  after  the  in 
different  fashion  of  the  usual  American  woman  of  the 
comfortable  classes.  She  had  always  had  a  maid;  she 
could  not  even  dress  herself  properly  without  the  maid's 
assistance.  Life  without  a  maid  was  inconceivable; 
life  without  servants  was  impossible. 

She  wandered  through  the  house,  through  the 
grounds.  She  said  to  herself  again  and  again :  "  We 
have  got  to  give  up  all  this,  and  be  miserably  poor  — 
with  not  a  servant,  with  less  than  the  tenement  people 
have."  But  the  words  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her. 
She  said  to  herself  again  and  again :  u  I  must  rouse 
myself.  I  must  do  something.  I  must  —  must  — 
must !  "  But  she  did  not  rouse,  because  there  was  noth 
ing  to  rouse.  So  far  as  practical  life  was  concerned 
she  was  as  devoid  of  ideas  as  a  new-born  baby. 

There  was  but  the  one  hope  —  marriage,  a  rich  mar 
riage.  It  is  the  habit  of  men  who  can  take  care  of 

19 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


themselves  and  of  women  who  are  securely  well  taken 
care  of  to  scorn  the  woman  or  the  helpless-bred  man 
who  marries  for  money  or  even  entertains  that  idea. 
How  little  imagination  these  scorners  have!  To  marry 
for  a  mere  living,  hardly  better  than  one  could  make 
for  oneself,  assuredly  does  show  a  pitiful  lack  of  self- 
reliance,  a  melancholy  lack  of  self-respect.  But  for 
men  or  women  all  their  lives  used  to  luxury  and  with 
no  ability  whatever  at  earning1  money  —  for  such  per 
sons  to  marry  money  in  order  to  save  themselves  from 
the  misery  and  shame  that  poverty  means  to  them  is  the 
most  natural,  the  most  human  action  conceivable.  The 
man  or  the  woman  who  says  he  or  she  would  not  do  it, 
either  is  a  hypocrite  or  is  talking  without  thinking. 
You  may  in  honesty  criticize  and  condemn  a  social  sys 
tem  that  suffers  men  and  women  to  be  so  crudely  and 
criminally  miseducated  by  being  given  luxury  they  did 
not  earn.  But  to  condemn  the  victims  of  that  system 
for  acting  as  its  logic  compels  is  sheer  folly  or  sheer 
phariseeism. 

Would  Mildred  Gower  have  married  for  money?  As 
the  weeks  fled,  as  the  bank  account  dwindled,  she  would 
have  grasped  eagerly  at  any  rich  man  who  might  have 
offered  himself  —  no  matter  how  repellent  he  might 
have  been.  She  did  not  want  a  bare  living ;  she  did  not 
want  what  passes  with  the  mass  of  middle-class  people 
for  comfort.  She  wanted  what  she  had  —  the  beautiful 
and  spacious  house,  the  costly  and  fashionable  clothing, 
the  servants,  the  carriages  and  motors,  the  thousand 
and  one  comforts,  luxuries,  and  vanities  to  which  she 
had  always  been  used.  In  the  brain  of  a  young  woman 

20 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


of  poor  or  only  comfortably  off  family  the  thoughts 
that  seethed  in  Mildred  Gower's  brain  would  have  been 
so  many  indications  of  depravity.  In  Mildred  Gower's 
brain  they  were  the  natural,  the  inevitable,  thoughts. 
They  indicated  everything  as  to  her  training,  nothing 
as  to  her  character.  So,  when  she,  thinking  only  of  a 
rich  marriage  with  no  matter  whom,  and  contrasting 
herself  with  the  fine  women  portrayed  in  the  novels  and 
plays,  condemned  herself  as  shameless  and  degraded, 
she  did  herself  grave  injustice. 

But  no  rich  man,  whether  attractive  or  repulsive, 
offered.  Indeed,  no  man  of  any  kind  offered.  Instead, 
it  was  her  mother  who  married. 

A  widower  named  James  Presbury,  elderly,  with  an 
income  of  five  to  six  thousand  a  year  from  inherited 
wealth,  stumbled  into  Hanging  Rock  to  live,  was  im 
pressed  by  the  style  the  widow  Gower  maintained,  be 
lieved  the  rumor  that  her  husband  had  left  her  better 
off  than  was  generally  thought,  proposed,  and  was  ac 
cepted.  And  two  years  and  a  month  after  Henry 
Gower's  death  his  widow  became  Mrs.  James  Presbury 
—  and  ceased  to  veil  from  her  new  husband  the  truth 
as  to  her  affairs. 

Mildred  had  thought  that,  than  the  family  quarrels 
incident  to  settling  her  father's  estate,  human  nature 
could  no  lower  descend.  She  was  now  to  be  disillu 
sioned.  When  a  young  man  or  a  young  woman  blun 
ders  into  a  poor  marriage  in  trying  to  make  a  rich 
one,  he  or  she  is  usually  withheld  from  immediate  and 
frank  expression  by  the  timidity  of  youth.  Not  so 
the  elderly  man  or  woman.  As  we  grow  older,  no  mat- 

21 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ter  how  timidly  conventional  we  are  by  nature,  we  be 
come,  through  selfishness  or  through  indifference  to  the 
opinion  of  others  or  through  impatience  of  petty  re 
straint,  more  and  more  outspoken.  Old  Presbury  dis 
covered  how  he  had  tricked  himself  four  days  after  the 
wedding.  He  and  his  bride  were  at  the  Waldorf  in 
New  York,  a-honeymooning. 

The  bride  had  never  professed  to  be  rich.  She  had 
simply  continued  in  her  lifelong  way,  had  simply  acted 
rich.  She  well  knew  the  gaudy  delusions  her  admirer 
was  entertaining,  and  she  saw  to  it  that  nothing  was 
said  or  done  to  disturb  him.  She  inquired  into  his  af 
fairs,  made  sure  of  the  substantiality  of  the  compara 
tively  small  income  he  possessed,  decided  to  accept  him 
as  her  best  available  chance  to  escape  becoming  a 
charge  upon  her  anything  but  eager  and  generous 
relatives.  She  awaited  the  explosion  with  serenity. 
She  cared  not  a  flip  for  Presbury,  who  was  a  soft  and 
silly  old  fool,  full  of  antiquated  compliments  and  so 
drearily  the  inferior  of  Henry  Gower,  physically  and 
mentally,  that  even  she  could  appreciate  the  difference, 
the  descent.  She  rather  enjoyed  the  prospect  of  a 
combat  with  him,  of  the  end  of  dissimulating  her 
contempt.  She  had  thought  out  and  had  put  in  ar 
senal  ready  for  use  a  variety  of  sneers,  jeers,  and 
insults  that  suggested  themselves  to  her  as  she 
listened  and  simpered  and  responded  while  he  was 
courting. 

Had  the  opportunity  offered  earlier  than  the  fourth 
day  she  would  have  seized  it,  but  not  until  that  fourth 
morning  was  she  in  just  the  right  mood.  She  had 

22 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


eaten  too  much  dinner  the  night  before,  and  had  fol 
lowed  it  after  two  hours  in  a  stuffy  theater  with  an 
indigestible  supper.  He  liked  the  bedroom  windows 
open  at  night;  she  liked  them  closed.  After  she  fell 
into  a  heavy  sleep,  he  slipped  out  of  bed  and  opened 
the  windows  wide  —  to  teach  her  by  the  night's  happy 
experience  that  she  was  entirely  mistaken  as  to  the 
harmfulness  of  fresh  winter  air.  The  result  was  that 
she  awakened  with  a  frightful  cold  and  a  splitting 
headache.  And  as  the  weather  was  about  to  change 
she  had  shooting  pains  like  toothache  through  her 
toes  the  instant  she  thrust  them  into  her  shoes. 
The  elderly  groom,  believing  he  had  a  rich  bride, 
was  all  solicitude  and  infuriating  attention.  She 
waited  until  he  had  wrought  her  to  the  proper  pitch  of 
fury.  Then  she  said  —  in  reply  to  some  remark  of 
his: 

"  Yes,  I  shall  rely  upon  you  entirely.  I  want  you 
to  take  absolute  charge  of  my  affairs." 

The  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  His  weak  old  mouth, 
rapidly  falling  to  pieces,  twisted  and  twitched  with 
emotion.  "  I'll  try  to  deserve  your  confidence,  dar 
ling,"  said  he.  "  I've  had  large  business  experience  — 
in  the  way  of  investing  carefully,  I  mean.  I  don't 
think  your  affairs  will  suffer  in  my  hands." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  they'll  not  trouble  you,"  said  she  in 
a  sweet,  sure  tone  as  the  pains  shot  through  her  feet 
and  her  head.  "  You'll  hardly  notice  my  little  mite  in 
your  property."  She  pretended  to  reflect.  "  Let  me 
see  —  there's  seven  thousand  left,  but  of  course  half 
of  that  is  Millie's." 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  It  must  be  very  well  invested,"  said  he.  "  Those 
seven  thousand  shares  must  be  of  the  very  best." 

"  Shares  ?  "  said  she,  with  a  gentle  little  laugh.  "  I 
mean  dollars." 

Presbury  was  about  to  lift  a  cup  of  cafe  au  lait  to 
his  lips.  Instead,  he  turned  it  over  into  the  platter  of 
eggs  and  bacon. 

"  We  —  Mildred  and  I,"  pursued  his  bride,  "  were 
left  with  only  forty-odd  thousand  between  us.  Of 
course,  we  had  to  live.  So,  naturally,  there's  very  lit 
tle  left." 

Presbury  was  shaking  so  violently  that  his  head  and 
arms  waggled  like  a  jumping-jack's.  He  wrapped  his 
elegant  white  fingers  about  the  arms  of  his  chair  to 
steady  himself.  In  a  suffocated  voice  he  said :  "  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  only  seven  thousand 
dollars  in  the  world?  " 

"  Only  half  that,"  corrected  she.  "  Oh,  dear,  how 
my  head  aches !  Less  than  half  that,  for  there  are  some 
debts." 

She  was  impatient  for  the  explosion;  the  agony  of 
her  feet  and  head  needed  outlet  and  relief.  But  he  dis 
appointed  her.  That  was  one  of  the  situations  in  which 
one  appeals  in  vain  to  the  resources  of  language.  He 
shrank  and  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  jaw  dropped, 
and  he  vented  a  strange,  imbecile  cackling  laugh.  It 
was  not  an  expression  of  philosophic  mirth,  of  sense 
of  the  grotesqueness  of  an  anti-climax.  It  was  not  an 
expression  of  any  emotion  whatever.  It  was  simply  a 
signal  from  a  mind  temporarily  dethroned. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at?  "  she  said  sharply. 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


His  answer  was  a  repetition  of  the  idiotic  sound. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? "  demanded  she. 
"  Please  close  your  mouth." 

It  was  a  timely  piece  of  advice ;  for  his  upper  and 
false  teeth  had  become  partially  dislodged  and  threat 
ened  to  drop  upon  the  shirt-bosom  gayly  showing  be 
tween  the  lapels  of  his  dark-blue  silk  house-coat.  He 
slowly  closed  his  mouth,  moving  his  teeth  back  into 
place  with  his  tongue  —  a  gesture  that  made  her  face 
twitch  with  rage  and  disgust. 

"  Seven  thousand  dollars,"  he  mumbled  dazedly. 

"  I  said  less  than  half  that,"  retorted  she  sharply. 

"  And  I  —  thought  you  were  —  rich." 

A  peculiar  rolling  of  the  eyes  and  twisting  of  the 
lips  gave  her  the  idea  that  he  was  about  to  vent  that  re 
pulsive  sound  again.  "  Don't  you  laugh ! "  she  cried. 
"  I  can't  bear  your  laugh  —  even  at  its  best." 

Suddenly  he  galvanized  into  fury.  "  This  is  an  out 
rage  !  "  he  cried,  waving  his  useless-looking  white  fists. 
"  You  have  swindled  me  —  swindled  me !  " 

Her  head  stopped  aching.  The  pains  in  her  feet 
either  ceased  or  she  forgot  them.  In  a  suspiciously 
calm  voice  she  said :  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  are  a  swindler !  "  he  shouted,  bang 
ing  one  fist  on  the  table  and  waving  the  other. 

She  acted  as  though  his  meaning  were  just  dawning 
upon  her.  "  Do  you  mean,"  said  she  tranquilly,  "  that 
you  married  me  for  money  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  thought  you  a  substantial  woman,  and 
that  I  find  you  are  an  adventuress." 

"  Did  you  think,"  inquired  she,  "  that  any  woman 

25 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


who  had  money  would  marry  you?  "     She  laughed  — 
very  quietly.     "  You  are  a  fool !  " 

He  sat  back  to  look  at  her.  This  mode  of  combat  in 
such  circumstances  puzzled  him. 

"  I  knew  that  you  were  rich,"  she  went  on,  "  or  you 
would  not  have  dared  offer  yourself  to  me.  All  my 
friends  were  amazed  at  my  stooping  to  accept  you. 
Your  father  was  an  Irish  Tammany  contractor,  wasn't 
he?  —  a  sort  of  criminal?  But  I  simply  had  to  marry. 
So  I  gave  you  my  family  and  position  and  name  in  ex 
change  for  your  wealth  —  a  good  bargain  for  you, 
but  a  poor  one  for  me." 

These  references  to  his  wealth  were  most  disconcerting, 
especially  as  they  were  accompanied  by  remarks  about 
his  origin,  of  which  he  was  so  ashamed  that  he  had 
changed  the  spelling  of  his  name  in  the  effort  to  clear 
himself  of  it.  However,  some  retort  was  imperative. 
He  looked  at  her  and  said: 

"  Swindler  and  adventuress !  " 

"Don't  repeat  that  lie,"  said  she.  "You  are 
the  adventurer  —  despite  the  fact  that  you  are  very 
rich." 

"  Don't  say  that  again,"  cried  he.  "  I  never  said  or 
pretended  I  was  rich.  I  have  about  five  thousand  a 
year  —  and  you'll  not  get  a  cent  of  it,  madam !  " 

She  knew  his  income,  but  no  one  would  have  suspected 
it  from  her  expression  of  horror.  "  What ! "  she 
gasped.  "  You  dared  to  marry  me  when  you  were  a  — 
beggar !  Me  —  the  widow  of  Henry  Gower !  You  im 
pudent  old  wreck !  Why,  you  haven't  enough  to  pay 
my  servants.  What  are  we  to  live  on,  pray?  " 

26 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  don't  know  what  you'll  live  on,"  replied  he.  "  / 
shall  .live  as  I  always  have." 

"  A  beggar !  "  she  exclaimed.  "I  —  married  to  a 
beggar."  She  burst  into  tears.  "  How  men  take  ad 
vantage  of  a  woman  alone !  If  my  son  had  been  near 
me!  But  there's  surely  some  law  to  protect  me.  Yes, 
I'm  sure  there  is.  Oh,  I'll  punish  you  for  having  de 
ceived  me."  Her  eyes  dried  as  she  looked  at  him, 
"  How  dare  you  sit  there?  How  dare  you  face  me,  you 
miserable  fraud ! " 

Early  in  her  acquaintance  with  him  she  had  discov 
ered  that  determining  factors  in  his  character  were  sensi 
tiveness  about  his  origin  and  sensitiveness  about  his  so 
cial  position.  On  this  knowledge  of  his  weaknesses  was 
securely  based  her  confidence  that  she  could  act  as  she 
pleased  toward  him.  To  ease  her  pains  she  proceeded 
to  pour  out  her  private  opinion  of  him  —  all  the  dis 
agreeable  things,  all  the  insults  she  had  been  storing 
up. 

She  watched  him  as  only  a  woman  can  watch  a  man. 
She  saw  that  his  rage  was  not  dangerous,  that  she  was 
forcing  him  into  a  position  where  fear  of  her  revenging 
herself  by  disgracing  him  would  overcome  anger  at 
the  collapse  of  his  fatuous  dreams  of  wealth.  She  did 
not  despise  him  the  more  deeply  for  sitting  there,  for 
not  flying  from  the  room  or  trying  to  kill  her  or  some 
how  compelling  her  to  check  that  flow  of  insult.  She  al 
ready  despised  him  utterly;  also,  she  attached  small  im 
portance  to  self-respect,  having  no  knowledge  of  what 
that  quality  really  is. 

When  she  grew  tired,  she  became  quiet.  They  sat 

27 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


there  a  long  time  in  silence.     At  last  he  ran  up  the  white 
flag  of  abject  surrender  by  saying: 

"  What'll  we  live  on  —  that's  what  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

An  eavesdropper  upon  the  preceding  violence  of  up 
ward  of  an  hour  would  have  assumed  that  at  its  end  this 
pair  must  separate,  never  to  see  each  other  again  volun 
tarily.  But  that  idea,  even  as  a  possibility,  had  not  en 
tered  the  mind  of  either.  They  had  lived  a  long  time ; 
they  were  practical  people.  They  knew  from  the  out 
set  that  somehow  they  must  arrange  to  go  on  together. 
The  alternative  meant  a  mere  pittance  of  alimony  for 
her ;  meant  for  him  social  ostracism  and  the  small  in 
come  cut  in  half;  meant  for  both  scandal  and  confusion. 

Said  she  fretfully :  "  Oh,  I  suppose  we'll  get  along, 
somehow.  I  don't  know  anything  about  those  things. 
I've  always  been  looked  after  —  kept  from  contact  with 
the  sordid  side  of  life." 

"  That  house  you  live  in,"  he  went  on,  "  does  it  be 
long  to  you?  " 

She  gave  him  a  contemptuous  glance.  "  Of  course," 
said  she.  "  What  low  people  you  must  have  been  used 
to!" 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  rented  it  for  your 
bunco  game,"  retorted  he.  "  The  furniture,  the  horses, 
the  motor  —  all  those  things  —  do  they  belong  to 
you?" 

"  I  shall  leave  the  room  if  you  insult  me,"  said  she. 

"  Did  you  include  them  in  the  seven  thousand  dol 
lars?" 

"  The  money  is  in  the  bank.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  our  house  and  our  property." 

28 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


He  reflected,  presently  said :  "  The  horses  and  car 
riages  must  be  sold  at  once  —  and  all  those  servants  dis 
missed  except  perhaps  two.  We  can  live  in  the  house." 

She  grew  purple  with  rage.  "  Sell  my  carriages ! 
Discharge  my  servants  I  I'd  like  to  see  you  try !  " 

"  Who's  to  pay  for  keeping  up  that  establishment?  " 
demanded  he. 

She  was  silent.     She  saw  what  he  had  in  mind. 

"  If  you  want  to  keep  that  house  and  live  comforta 
bly,"  he  went  on,  "  you've  got  to  cut  expenses  to  the 
bone.  You  see  that,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  can't  live  any  way  but  the  way  I've  been  used  to 
all  my  life,"  wailed  she. 

He  eyed  her  disgustedly.  Was  there  anything  equal 
to  a  woman  for  folly? 

"  We've  got  to  make  the  most  of  what  little  we 
have,"  said  he. 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  anything  about  those 
things,"  repeated  she.  "  You'll  have  to  look  after  them. 
Mildred  and  I  aren't  like  the  women  you've  been  used  to. 
We  are  ladies." 

Presbury's  rage  boiled  over  again  at  the  mention  of 
Mildred.  "  That  daughter  of  yours ! "  he  cried. 
"  What's  to  be  done  about  her?  I've  got  no  money  to 
waste  on  her." 

"  You  miserable  Tammany  thing!  "  exclaimed  she. 
"  Don't  you  dare  speak  of  my  daughter  except  in  the 
most  respectful  way." 

And  once  more  she  opened  out  upon  him,  wreaking, 
upon  him  all  her  wrath  against  fate,  all  the  pent-up 
fury  of  two  years  —  fury  which  had  been  denied  such 

29  . 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


fury's  usual  and  natural  expression  in  denunciations  of 
the  dead  bread-winner.  The  generous  and  ever-kind 
Henry  Gower  could  not  be  to  blame  for  her  wretched 
plight ;  and,  of  course,  she  herself  could  not  be  to  blame 
for  it.  So,  until  now  there  had  been  no  scapegoat. 
Presbury  therefore  received  the  whole  burden.  He, 
alarmed  lest  a  creature  apparently  so  irrational,  should 
in  wild  rage  drive  him  away,  ruin  him  socially,  perhaps 
induce  a  sympathetic  court  to  award  her  a  large  part  of 
his  income  as  alimony,  said  not  a  word  in  reply.  He 
bade  his  wrath  wait.  Later  on,  when  the  peril  was  over, 
when  he  had  a  firm  grip  upon  the  situation  —  then  he 
would  take  his  revenge. 

They  gave  up  the  expensive  suite  at  the  Waldorf  that 
very  day  and  returned  to  Hanging  Rock.  They  alterna 
ted  between  silence  and  the  coarsest,  crudest  quarrelings, 
for  neither  had  the  intelligence  to  quarrel  wittily  or  the 
refinement  to  quarrel  artistically.  As  soon  as  they  ar 
rived  at  the  Gower  house,  Mildred  was  dragged  into  the 
wrangle. 

"  I  married  this  terrible  man  for  your  sake,"  was  the 
burden  of  her  mother's  wail.  "  And  he  is  a  beggar  — 
wants  to  sell  off  everything  and  dismiss  the  servants." 

"  You  are  a  pair  of  paupers,"  cried  the  old  man. 
"  You  are  shameless  tricksters.  Be  careful  how  you 
goad  me ! " 

Mildred  had  anticipated  an  unhappy  ending  to  her 
mother's  marriage,  but  she  had  not  knowledge  enough 
of  life  or  of  human  nature  to  anticipate  any  such  hor 
rors  as  now  began.  Every  day,  all  day  long  the  vulgar 
fight  raged.  Her  mother  and  her  stepfather  withdrew 

30 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


from  each  other's  presence  only  to  think  up  fresh  insults 
to  fling  at  each  other.  As  soon  as  they  were  armed 
they  hastened  to  give  battle  again.  She  avoided  Pres- 
bury.  Her  mother  she  could  not  avoid;  and  when  her 
mother  was  not  in  combat  with  him,  she  was  weeping 
or  wailing  or  railing  to  Mildred. 

It  was  at  Mildred's  urging  that  her  mother  ac 
quiesced  in  Presbury's  plans  for  reducing  expenses 
within  income.  At  first  the  girl,  even  more  ignorant 
than  her  mother  of  practical  affairs,  did  not  appreci 
ate  the  wisdom,  not  to  say  the  necessity,  of  what  he 
wished  to  do,  but  soon  she  saw  that  he  was  right,  that 
the  servants  must  go,  that  the  horses  and  carriages  and 
the  motors  must  be  sold.  When  she  was  convinced 
and  had  convinced  her  mother,  she  still  did  not  realize 
what  the  thing  really  meant.  Not  until  she  no  longer 
had  a  maid  did  she  comprehend.  To  a  woman  who  has 
never  had  a  maid,  or  who  has  taken  on  a  maid  as  a 
luxury,  it  will  seem  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  Mildred 
felt  as  helpless  as  a  baby  lying  alone  in  a  crib  before  it 
has  learned  to  crawl.  Yet  that  is  rather  an  understate 
ment  of  her  plight.  The  maid  left  in  the  afternoon. 
Mildred,  not  without  inconveniences  that  had  in  the 
novelty  their  amusing  side,  contrived  to  dress  that  even 
ing  for  dinner  and  to  get  to  bed ;  but  when  she  awakened 
in  the  morning  and  was  ready  to  dress,  the  loss  of 
Therese  became  a  tragedy.  It  took  the  girl  nearly  four 
hours  to  get  herself  together  presentably  —  and  then, 
never  had  she  looked  so  unkempt.  With  her  hair,  thick 
and  soft,  she  could  do  nothing. 

"  What  a  wonderful  person  Therese  was ! "  thought 

31 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she.  "  And  I  always  regarded  her  as  rather  stupid." 
Her  mother,  who  had  not  had  a  maid  until  she  was 
about  thirty  and  had  never  become  completely  depend 
ent,  fared  somewhat  better,  though,  hearing  her  moans, 
you  would  have  thought  she  was  faring  worse. 

Mildred's  unhappiness  increased  from  day  to  day,  as 
her  wardrobe  fell  into  confusion  and  disrepair.  She 
felt  that  she  must  rise  to  the  situation,  must  teach  her 
self,  must  save  herself  from  impending  dowdiness  and 
slovenliness.  But  her  brain  seemed  to  be  paralyzed. 
She  did  not  know  how  or  where  to  begin  to  learn.  She 
often  in  secret  gave  way  to  the  futility  of  tears. 

There  were  now  only  a  cook  and  one  housemaid  and 
a  man  of  all  work  —  all  three  newcomers,  for  Presbury 
insisted  —  most  wisely  —  that  none  of  the  servants  of 
the  luxurious,  wasteful  days  would  be  useful  in  the  new 
circumstances.  He  was  one  of  those  small,  orderly  men 
who  have  a  genius  for  just  such  situations  as  the  one 
he  now  proceeded  to  grapple  with  and  solve.  In  his 
pleasure  at  managing  everything  about  that  house,  in 
distributing  the  work  among  the  three  servants,  in 
marketing,  and,  in  inspecting  purchases  and  nosing  into 
the  garbage-barrel,  in  looking  for  dust  on  picture- 
frames  and  table-tops  and  for  neglected  weeds  in  the 
garden  walks  —  in  this  multitude  of  engrossing  de 
lights  he  forgot  his  anger  over  the  trick  that  had  been 
played  upon  him.  He  still  fought  with  his  wife  and 
denounced  her  and  met  insult  with  insult.  But  that, 
too,  was  one  of  his  pleasures.  Also,  he  felt  that  on  the 
whole  he  had  done  well  in  marrying.  He  had  been  lonely 
as  a  bachelor,  had  had  no  one  to  talk  with,  or  to  quarrel 

32 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


with,  nothing  to  do.  The  marriage  was  not  so  expen 
sive,  as  his  wife  had  brought  him  a  house  —  and  it  such 
a  one  as  he  had  always  regarded  as  the  apogee  of  ele 
gance.  Living  was  not  dear  in  Hanging  Rock,  if  one 
understood  managing  and  gave  time  to  it.  And  socially 
he  was  at  last  established. 

Soon  his  wife  was  about  as  contented  as  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  life.  She  hated  and  despised  her  husband, 
but  quarreling  with  him  and  railing  against  him  gave 
her  occupation  and  aim  —  two  valuable  assets  toward 
happiness  that  she  had  theretofore  lacked.  Her  living 
—  shelter,  food,  clothing  enough  —  was  now  secure. 
But  the  most  important  factor  of  all  in  her  content  was 
the  one  apparently  too  trivial  to  be  worthy  of  record. 
From  girlhood  she  could  not  recall  a  single  day  in  which 
she  had  not  suffered  from  her  feet.  And  she  had  been 
ashamed  to  say  anything  about  it  —  had  never  let  any 
one,  even  her  maid,  see  her  feet,  which  were  about  the 
only  unsightly  part  of  her.  None  had  guessed  the 
cause  of  her  chronic  ill-temper  until  Presbury,  that 
genius  for  the  little,  said  within  a  week  of  their  mar 
riage  : 

"  You  talk  and  act  like  a  woman  with  chronic  corns." 

He  did  not  dream  of  the  effect  this  chance  thrust  had 
upon  his  wife.  For  the  first  time  he  had  really 
"landed."  She  concealed  her  fright  and  her  shame  as 
best  she  could  and  went  on  quarreling  more  viciously 
than  ever.  But  he  presently  returned  to  the  attack. 
Said  he : 

"  Your  feet  hurt  you.  I'm  sure  they  do.  Now  that 
I  think  of  it,  you  walk  that  way." 

33 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  suppose  I  deserve  my  fate,"  said  she.  "  When  a 
woman  marries  beneath  her  she  must  expect  insult  and 
low  conversation." 

"  You  must  cure  your  feet,"  said  he.  "  I'll  not  live 
in  the  house  with  a  person  who  is  made  fiendish  by  corns. 
I  think  it's  only  corns.  I  see  no  signs  of  bunions." 

"  You  brute !  "  cried  his  wife,  rushing  from  the  room. 

But  when  they  met  again,  he  at  once  resumed  the  sub 
ject,  telling  her  just  how  she  could  cure  herself  —  and 
he  kept  on  telling  her,  she  apparently  ignoring  but 
secretly  acting  on  his  advice.  He  knew  what  he  was 
about,  and  her  feet  grew  better,  grew  well  —  and  she 
was  happier  than  she  had  been  since  girlhood  when  she 
began  ruining  her  feet  with  tight  shoes. 

Six  months  after  the  marriage,  Presbury  and  his  wife 
were  getting  on  about  as  comfortably  as  it  is  given  to 
average  humanity  to  get  on  in  this  world  of  incessant 
struggle  between  uncomfortable  man  and  his  uncom 
fortable  environment.  But  Mildred  had  become  more 
and  more  unhappy.  Her  mother,  sometimes  angrily, 
again  reproachfully  —  and  that  was  far  harder  to  bear 
—  blamed  her  for  "  my  miserable  marriage  to  this  low, 
quarrelsome  brute."  Presbury  let  no  day  pass  without 
telling  her  openly  that  she  was  a  beggar  living  off  him, 
that  she  would  better  marry  soon  or  he  would  take  dras 
tic  steps  to  release  himself  of  the  burden.  When  he  at 
tacked  her  before  her  mother,  there  was  a  violent  quarrel 
from  which  Mildred  fled  to  hide  in  her  room  or  in  the 
remotest  part  of  the  garden.  When  he  hunted  her  out 
to  insult  her  alone,  she  sat  or  stood  with  eyes  down  and 
face  ghastly  pale,  mute,  quivering.  She  did  not  inter- 

34 


1HE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


nipt,  did  not  try  to  escape.  She  was  like  the  chained 
and  spiritless  dog  that  crouches  and  takes  the  shower  of 
blows  from  its  cruel  master. 

Where  could  she  go?  Nowhere.  What  could  she 
do?  Nothing.  In  the  days  of  prosperity  she  had  re 
garded  herself  as  proud  and  high  spirited.  She  now 
wondered  at  herself!  What  had  become  of  the  pride? 
What  of  the  spirit?  She  avoided  looking  at  her  image 
in  the  glass  —  that  thin,  pallid  face,  those  circled  eyes, 
the  drawn,  sick  expression  about  the  mouth  and  nose. 
"  I'm  stunned,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I've  been  stunned 
ever  since  father's  death.  I've  never  recovered  —  nor 
has  mother."  And  she  gave  way  to  tears  —  for  her 
father,  she  fancied ;  in  fact,  from  shame  at  her  weakness 
and  helplessness.  She  thought  —  hoped  —  that  she 
would  not  be  thus  feeble  and  cowardly,  if  she  were  not 
living  at  home,  in  the  house  she  loved,  the  house  where 
she  had  spent  her  whole  life.  And  such  a  house !  Com 
fort  and  luxury  and  taste ;  every  room,  every  corner  of 
the  grounds,  full  of  the  tenderest  and  most  beautiful 
associations.  Also,  there  was  her  position  in  Hanging 
Rock.  Everywhere  else  she  would  be  a  stranger  and 
would  have  either  no  position  at  all  or  one  worse  than 
that  of  the  utter  outsider.  There,  she  was  of  the  few 
looked  up  to  by  the  whole  community.  No  one  knew, 
or  even  suspected,  how  she  was  degraded  by  her  step 
father.  Before  the  world  he  was  courteous  and  con 
siderate  toward  her  as  toward  everybody.  Indeed,  Pres- 
bury's  natural  instincts  were  gentle  and  kindly.  His 
hatred  of  Mildred  and  his  passion  for  humiliating  her 
were  the  result  of  his  conviction  that  he  had  been  tricked 

35 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


into  the  marriage  and  his  inability  to  gratify  his  resent 
ment  upon  his  wife.  He  could  not  make  the  mother 
suffer ;  but  he  could  make  the  daughter  suffer  —  and 
he  did.  Besides,  she  was  of  no  use  to  him  and  would 
presently  be  an  expense. 

"  Your  money  will  soon  be  gone,"  he  said  to  her. 
*"  If  you  paid  your  just  share  of  the  expenses  it  would 
be  gone  now.  When  it  is  gone,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  Your  mother  has  written  to  your  brother  about 
you." 

Mildred  lifted  her  head,  a  gleam  of  her  former  spirit 
in  her  eyes.  Then  she  remembered,  and  bent  her  gaze 
upon  the  ground. 

"  But  hej  like  the  cur  that  he  is,  answered  through  a 
secretary  that  he  wished  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
either  of  you." 

Mildred  guessed  that  Frank  had  made  the  marriage 
an  excuse. 

"  Surely  some  of  your  relatives  will  do  something  for 
you.  I  have  my  hands  full,  supporting  your  mother. 
I  don't  propose  to  have  two  strapping,  worthless  wo 
men  hanging  from  my  neck." 

She  bent  her  head  lower,  and  remained  silent. 

"  I  warn  you  to  bestir  yourself,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
give  you  four  months.  After  the  first  of  the  year  you 
can't  stay  here  unless  you  pay  your  share  —  your  third." 

No  answer. 

"  You  hear  what  I  say,  miss  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yes,"  replied  she. 

"  If  you  had  any  sense  you  wouldn't  wait  until  your 

36 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


last  cent  was  gone.  You'd  go  to  New  York  now  and 
get  something  to  do." 

"  What?  "  she  asked  —  all  she  could  trust  herself  to 
speak. 

"  How  should  /  know  ? "  retorted  he  furiously. 
"  You  are  a  stranger  to  me.  You've  been  educated,  I 
assume.  Surely  there's  something  you  can  do.  You've 
been  out  six  years  now,  and  have  had  no  success,  for 
you're  neither  married  nor  engaged.  You  can't  call  it 
success  to  be  flattered  and  sought  by  people  who  wanted 
invitations  to  this  house  when  it  was  a  social  center." 

He  paused  for  response  from  her.     None  came. 

"  You  admit  you  are  a  failure  ?  "  he  said  sharply. 

"  Yes,"  said  she. 

"  You  must  have  realized  it  several  years  ago,"  he 
went  on.  "  Instead  of  allowing  your  mother  to  keep  on 
wasting  money  in  entertaining  lavishly  here  to  give 
you  a  chance  to  marry,  you  should  have  been  preparing 
yourself  to  earn  a  living."  A  pause.  "  Isn't  that  true, 
miss  ?  " 

He  had  a  way  of  pronouncing  the  word  "  miss  "  that 
made  it  an  epithet,  a  sneer  at  her  unmarried  and  un- 
marriageable  state.  She  colored,  paled,  murmured: 
"  Yes." 

"Then,  better  late  than  never.  You'll  do  well  to 
follow  my  advice  and  go  to  New  York  and  look  about 
you." 

"  I'll  —  I'll  think  of  it,"  stammered  she. 

And  she  did  think  of  it.  But  in  all  her  life  she  had 
never  considered  the  idea  of  money-making.  That  was 
something  for  men,  and  for  the  middle  and  lower  classes 

37 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


—  while  Hanging  Rock  was  regarded  as  most  noisomely 
middle  class  by  fashionable  people,  it  did  not  so  regard 
itself.  Money-making  was  not  for  ladies.  Like  all  her 
class,  she  was  a  constant  and  a  severe  critic  of  the  wo 
men  of  the  lower  orders  who  worked  for  her  as  milliners, 
dressmakers,  shop-attendants,  cooks,  maids.  But,  as  she 
now  realized,  it  is  one  thing  to  pass  upon  the  work 
of  others;  it  is  another  thing  to  do  work  oneself. 
She —  There  was  literally  nothing  that  she  could  do. 
Any  occupation,  even  the  most  menial,  was  either 
beyond  her  skill  or  beyond  her  strength,  or  beyond 
both. 

Suddenly  she  recalled  that  she  could  sing.  Her  pros 
trate  spirit  suddenly  leaped  erect.  Yes,  she  could  sing! 
Her  voice  had  been  praised  by  experts.  Her  singing- 
had  been  in  demand  at  charity  entertainments  where 
amateurs  had  to  compete  with  professionals.  Then 
down  she  dropped  again.  She  sang  well  enough  to 
know  how  badly  she  sang  —  the  long  and  toilsome  and 
expensive  training  that  lay  between  her  and  operatic  or 
concert  or  even  music-hall  stage.  Her  voice  was  fine  at 
times.  Again  —  most  of  the  time  —  it  was  unreliable. 
No,  she  could  not  hope  to  get  paying  employment  even 
as  a  church  choir-singer.  Miss  Dresser  who  sang  in  the 
choir  of  the  Good  Shepherd  for  ten  dollars  a  Sunday, 
had  not  nearly  so  good  a  voice  as  she,  but  it  was  reliable. 
"  There  is  nothing  I  can  do  —  nothing !  " 
All  at  once,  with  no  apparent  bridge  across  the  vast 
chasm,  her  heart  went  out,  not  in  pity  but  in  human  un 
derstanding  and  sisterly  sympathy,  to  the  women  of  the 
pariah  class  at  whom,  during  her  stops  in  New  York, 

38 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she  had  sometimes  gazed  in  wonder  and  horror.  "  Why, 
we  and  they  are  only  a  step  apart,"  she  said  to  herself  in 
amazement.  "  We  and  they  are  much  nearer  than  my 
maid  or  the  cook  and  they !  " 

And  then  her  heart  skipped  a  beat  and  her  skin  grew 
cold  and  a  fog  swirled  over  her  brain.  If  she  should  be 
cast  out  —  if  she  could  find  no  work  and  no  one  to  sup 
port  her  —  would  she  —  "  O  my  God !  "  she  moaned. 
"  I  must  be  crazy,  to  think  such  thoughts.  I  never 
could !  I'd  die  first  —  die!  "  But  if  anyone  had  pic 
tured  to  her  the  kind  of  life  she  was  now  leading  —  the 
humiliation  and  degradation  she  was  meekly  enduring 
with  no  thought  of  flight,  with  an  ever  stronger  desire 
to  stay  on,  regardless  of  pride  and  self-respect  —  if 
anyone  had  pictured  this  to  her  as  what  she  would  en 
dure,  what  would  she  have  said?  She  could  see  herself 
flashing  scornful  denial,  saying  that  she  would  rather 
kill  herself.  Yet  she  was  living  —  and  was  not  even 
contemplating  suicide  as  a  way  out ! 

A  few  days  after  Presbury  gave  her  warning,  her 
mother  took  advantage  of  his  absence  for  his  religiously 
observed  daily  constitutional  to  say  to  her: 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  was  behind  him  in  what 
he  said  to  you  about  going  away  ?  " 

Mildred  had  not  thought  so,  but  in  her  mother's 
guilty  tone  and  guiltier  eyes  she  now  read  that  her 
mother  wished  her  to  go. 

"  It'd  be  awful  for  me  to  be  left  here  alone  with  him," 
wailed  her  mother  insincerely.  "  Of  course  we've  got 
no  money,  and  beggars  can't  be  choosers.  But  it'd  just 
about  kill  me  to  have  you  go." 

39 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 

ildred  could  not  speak. 

"  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  money,"  Mrs.  Presbury 
went  on.  "  Your  father  always  looked  after  every 
thing."  She  had  fallen  into  the  way  of  speaking  of 
her  first  husband  as  part  of  some  vague,  remote  past, 
which,  indeed,  he  had  become  for  her.  "  This  man  " — 
meaning  Presbury  — "  has  only  about  five  thousand  a 
year,  as  you  know.  I  suppose  that's  as  small  as  he  says 
it  is.  I  remember  our  bills  for  one  month  used  to  be  as 
much  or  more  than  that."  She  waved  her  useless,  pretty 
hands  helplessly.  "  I  don't  see  "how  we  are  to  get  on, 
Mildred!" 

Her  mother  wished  her  to  go !  Her  mother  had  fallen 
under  the  influence  of  Presbury  —  her  mother,  woman 
like,  or  rather,  ladylike,  was  of  kin  to  the  helpless,  flabby 
things  that  float  in  the  sea  and  attach  themselves  to 
whatever  they  happen  to  lodge  against.  Her  mother 
wished  her  to  go! 

"  At  the  same  time,"  Mrs.  Presbury  went  on,  "  I 
can't  live  without  somebody  here  to  stand  between  me 
and  him.  I'd  kill  him  or  kill  myself." 

Mildred  muttered  some  excuse  and  fled  from  the 
room,  to  lock  herself  in. 

But  when  she  came  forth  again  to  descend  to  dinner, 
she  had  resolved  nothing,  because  there  was  nothing  to 
resolve.  When  she  was  a  child  she  leaned  from  the 
nursery  window  one  day  and  saw  a  stable-boy  drowning 
a  rat  that  was  in  a  big,  oval,  wire  cage  with  a  wooden  bot 
tom.  The  boy  pressed  the  cage  slowly  down  in  the  vat 
of  water.  The  rat,  in  the  very  top  of  the  cage,  watched 

40 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  floor  sink,  watched  the  water  rise.  And  as  it  watched 
it  uttered  a  strange,  shrill,  feeble  sound  which  she  could 
still  remember  distinctly  and  terribly.  It  seemed  to  her 
now  that  if  she  were  to  utter  any  sound  at  all,  it  would 
be  that  one. 


n 

ON  the  Monday  before  Thanksgiving,  Presbury  went 
up  to  New  York  to  look  after  one  of  the  little  specu 
lations  in  Wall  Street  at  which  he  was  so  clever. 
Throughout  the  civilized  world  nowadays,  and  especially 
in  and  near  the  great  capitals  of  finance,  there  is  a  class 
of  men  and  women  of  small  capital  and  of  a  character 
in  which  are  combined  iron  self-restraint,  rabbit-like 
timidity,  and  great  shrewdness,  who  make  often  a  not 
inconsiderable  income  by  gambling  in  stocks.  They 
buy  only  when  the  market  is  advancing  strongly ;  they 
sell  as  soon  as  they  have  gained  the  scantest  margin  of 
profit.  They  never  permit  themselves  to  be  tempted  by 
the  most  absolute  certainty  of  larger  gains.  They  wifl 
let  weeks,  months  even,  go  by  without  once  risking  a 
dollar.  They  wait  until  they  simply  cannot  lose.  Tens 
of  thousands  every  year  try  to  join  this  class.  All  but 
the  few  soon  succumb  to  the  hourly  dazzling  tempta 
tions  the  big  gamblers  dangle  before  the  eyes  of  the  lit 
tle  gamblers  to  lure  them  within  reach  of  the  merciless 
shears. 

Presbury  had  for  many  years  added  from  one  to  ten 
thousand  a  year  to  his  income  by  this  form  of  gambling, 
success  at  which  is  in  itself  sufficient  to  stamp  a  man  as 
infinitely  little  of  soul.  On  that  Monday  he,  venturing 
for  the  first  time  in  six  months,  returned  to  Hanging 

42 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Rock  on  the  three-thirty  train  the  richer  by  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  —  as  large  a  "  killing  "  as  he  had  ever 
made  in  any  single  day,  one  large  enough  to  elevate  him 
to  the  rank  of  prince  among  the  "  sure-thing  snides." 
He  said  nothing  about  his  luck  to  his  family,  but  let 
them  attribute  his  unprecedented  good  humor  to  the 
news  he  brought  and  announced  at  dinner. 

"  I  met  an  old  friend  in  the  street  this  afternoon," 
said  he.  "  He  has  invited  us  to  take  Thanksgiving  din 
ner  with  him.  And  I  think  it  will  be  a  dinner  worth 
while  —  the  food,  I  mean,  and  the  wine.  Not  the 
guests ;  for  there  won't  be  any  guests  but  us.  General 
Siddall  is  a  stranger  in  New  York." 

"  There  are  Siddalls  in  New  York,"  said  his  wife ; 
"  very  nice,  refined  people  —  going  in  the  best  so 
ciety." 

Presbury  showed  his  false  teeth  in  a  genial  smile ;  for 
the  old-fashioned  or  plate  kind  of  false  teeth  they  were 
extraordinarily  good  —  when  exactly  in  place.  "  But 
not  my  old  friend  Bill  Siddall,"  said  he.  "  He's  next 
door  to  an  outlaw.  I'd  not  have  accepted  his  invita 
tion  if  he  had  been  asking  us  to  dine  in  public.  But  this 
is  to  be  at  his  own  house  —  his  new  house  —  and  a  very 
grand  house  it  is,  judging  by  the  photos  he  showed  me. 
A  regular  palace !  He'll  not  be  an  outlaw  long,  I  guess. 
But  we  must  wait  and  see  how  he  comes  out  socially  be 
fore  we  commit  ourselves." 

"Did  you  accept  for  me,  too?"  asked  Mrs.  Pres 
bury. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Presbury.  "  And  for  your  daugh 
ter,  too." 

43 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  can't  go,"  said  Mildred.  "  I'm  dining  with  the 
Fassetts." 

The  family  no  longer  had  a  servant  in  constant  at 
tendance  in  the  dining-room.  The  maid  of  many  func 
tions  also  acted  as  butler  and  as  fetch-and-carry  be 
tween  kitchen  and  butler's  pantry.  Before  speaking, 
Presbury  waited  until  this  maid  had  withdrawn  to  bring 
the  roast  and  the  vegetables.  Then  he  said: 

"  You  are  going,  too,  miss."  This  with  the  full  in 
fusion  of  insult  into  the  "  miss." 

Mildred  was  silent. 

"  Bill  Siddall  is  looking  for  a  wife,"  proceeded 
Presbury.  "  And  he  has  Heaven  knows  how  many 
millions." 

"Do  you  think  there's  a  chance  for  Milly?"  cried 
Mrs.  Presbury,  who  was  full  of  alternating  hopes  and 
fears,  both  wholly  irrational. 

"  She  can  have  him  —  if  she  wants  him,"  replied 
Presbury.  "  But  it's  only  fair  to  warn  her  that  he's  a 
stiff  dose." 

"  Is  the  money  —  certain?  "  inquired  Mildred's* 
mother  with  that  shrewdness  whose  rare  occasional  dis 
plays  laid  her  open  to  the  unjust  suspicion  of  feigning 
her  habitual  stupidity. 

"  Yes,"  said  Presbury  amiably.  "  It's  nothing  like 
yours  was.  He's  so  rich  he  doesn't  know  what  to  do 
with  his  income.  He  owns  mines  scattered  all  over  the 
world.  And  if  they  all  failed,  he's  got  bundles  of  rail 
way  stocks  and  bonds,  and  gilt-edged  trust  stocks,  too. 
And  he's  a  comparatively  young  man  —  hardly  fifty, 
I  should  say.  He  pretends  to  be  forty." 

44 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  It's  strange  I  never  heard  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Pres- 
bury. 

"  If  you  went  to  South  America  or  South  Africa  or 
Alaska,  you'd  hear  of  him,"  said  Presbury.  He  laughed. 
"  And  I  guess  you'd  hear  some  pretty  dreadful  things. 
When  I  knew  him  twenty-five  years  ago  he  had  just 
been  arrested  for  forging  my  father's  name  to  a  check. 
But  he  got  out  of  that  —  and  it's  all  past  and  gone. 
Probably  he  hasn't  committed  any  worse  crimes  than 
have  most  of  our  big  rich  men.  Bill's  handicap  has 
been  that  he  hadn't  much  education  or  any  swell  rela 
tives.  But  he's  a  genius  at  money-making."  Pres 
bury  looked  at  Mildred  with  a  grin.  "  And  he's  just  the 
husband  for  Mildred.  She  can't  afford  to  be  too  par 
ticular.  Somebody's  got  to  support  her.  /  can't  and 
won't,  and  she  can't  support  herself." 

"  You'll  go  —  won't  you,  Mildred?  "  said  her  mother. 
"  He  may  not  be  so  bad." 

"  Yes,  I'll  go,"  said  Mildred.  Her  gaze  was  upon  the 
untouched  food  on  her  plate. 

"  Of  course  she'll  go,"  said  Presbury.  "  And  she'll 
marry  him  if  she  can.  Won't  you,  miss  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  his  amiably  insulting  way  — •  as  distin 
guished  from  the  way  of  savagely  sneering  insult  he 
usually  took  with  her.  He  expected  no  reply.  She 
surprised  him.  She  lifted  her  tragic  eyes  and  looked 
fixedly  at  him.  She  said: 

"  Yes,  I'll  go.     And  I'll  marry  him  if  I  can." 

"  I  told  him  he  could  have  you,"  said  Presbury.  "  I 
explained  to  him  that  you  were  a  rare  specimen  of  the 
perfect  lady  —  just  what  he  wanted  —  and  that  you, 

45 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  all  your  family,  would  be  grateful  to  anybody  who 
would  undertake  your  support." 

Mrs.  Presbury  flushed  angrily.  "  You've  made  it 
perfectly  useless  for  her  to  go ! "  she  cried. 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  love,"  said  her  husband.  "  I 
know  Bill  Siddall  thoroughly.  I  said  what  would  help. 
I  want  to  get  rid  of  her  as  much  as  you  do  —  and  that's 
saying  a  great  deal." 

Mrs.  Presbury  flamed  with  the  wrath  of  those  who 
are  justly  accused.  "  If  Mildred  left,  I  should  go,  too," 
cried  she. 

"  Go  where? "  inquired  her  husband.  "  To  the 
poorhouse  ?  " 

By  persistent  rubbing  in  Presbury  had  succeeded  in 
making  the  truth  about  her  poverty  and  dependence 
clear  to  his  wife.  She  continued  to  frown  and  to 
look  unutterable  contempt,  but  he  had  silenced  her. 
He  noted  this  with  a  sort  of  satisfaction  and  went 
on: 

"  If  Bill  Siddall  takes  her,  you  certainly  won't  go 
there.  He  wouldn't  have  you.  He  feels  strongly  on 
the  subject  of  mothers-in-law." 

"  Has  he  been  married  before?  "  asked  Mrs.  Pres 
bury. 

"  Twice,"  replied  her  husband.  "  His  first  wife  died. 
He  divorced  the  second  for  unfaithfulness." 

Mildred  saw  in  this  painstaking  recital  of  all  the  dis 
agreeable  and  repellent  facts  about  Siddall  an  effort 
further  to  humiliate  her  by  making  it  apparent  how 
desperately  off  she  was,  how  she  could  not  refuse  any 
offer,  revolting  though  it  might  be  to  her  pride  and  to 

46 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


her  womanly  instincts.  Doubtless  this  was  in  part  the 
explanation  of  Presbury's  malicious  candor.  But  an 
element  in  that  candor  was  a  prudent  preparing  of  the 
girl's  mind  for  worse  than  the  reality.  That  he  was  in 
earnest  in  his  profession  of  a  desire  to  bring  about  the 
match  showed  when  he  proposed  that  they  should  take 
rooms  at  a  hotel  in  New  York,  to  give  her  a  chance  to 
dress  properly  for  the  dinner.  True,  he  hastened  to  say 
that  the  expense  must  be  met  altogether  out  of  the 
remnant  of  Mildred's  share  of  her  father's  estate,  but 
the  idea  would  not  have  occurred  to  him  had  he  not 
been  really  planning  a  marriage. 

Never  had  Mildred  looked  more  beautiful  or  more  at 
tractive  than  when  the  three  were  ready  to  sally  forth 
from  the  Manhattan  Hotel  on  that  Thanksgiving  even 
ing.  At  twenty-five,  a  soundly  healthy  and  vigorous 
twenty-fire,  it  is  impossible  for  mind  and  nerves,  how 
ever  wrought  upon,  to  make  serious  inroads  upon  sur 
face  charms.  The  hope  of  emancipation  from  her  hide 
ous  slavery  had  been  acting  upon  the  girl  like  a  power 
ful  tonic.  She  had  gained  several  pounds  in  the  three 
intervening  days ;  her  face  had  filled  out,  color  had  come 
back  in  all  its  former  beauty  to  her  lips.  Perhaps 
there  was  some  slight  aid  from  art  in  the  extraordinary 
brilliancy  of  her  eyes. 

Presburj  inventoried  her  with  a  succession  of  grunts 
of  satisfaction.  "  Yes,  he'll  want  you,"  he  said. 
"  You'll  strike  him  as  just  the  show  piece  he  needs. 
And  he's  too  shrewd  not  to  be  aware  that  his  choice  is 
limited." 

"  You  can't  frighten  me,"  said  Mildred,  with  a 

47 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


radiant,  coquettish  smile  —  for  practice.  "  Nothing 
could  frighten  me." 

"  I'm  not  trying,"  replied  Presbury.  "  Nor  will  Sid- 
dall  frighten  you.  A  woman  who's  after  a  biU-payer 
can  stomach  anything." 

"  Or  a  man,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Oh,  your  mother  wasn't  as  bad  as  all  that,"  said 
Presbury,  who  never  lost  an  opportunity. 

Mrs.  Presbury,  seated  beside  her  daughter  in  the  cab, 
gave  an  exclamation  of  rage.  "  My  own  daughter  in 
sulting  me !  "  she  said. 

"  Such  a  thought  did  not  enter  my  head,"  protested 
Mildred.  "  I  wasn't  thinking  of  anyone  in  particular." 

"  Let's  not  quarrel  now,"  said  Presbury,  with  unprec 
edented  amiability.  "  We  must  give  Bill  a  spectacle 
of  the  happy  family." 

The  cab  entered  the  porte-cochere  of  a  huge  palace 
of  white  stone  just  off  Fifth  Avenue.  The  house  was 
even  grander  than  they  had  anticipated.  The  wrought- 
iron  fence  around  it  had  cost  a  small  fortune ;  the  house 
itself,  without  reference  to  its  contents,  a  large  fortune. 
The  massive  outer  doors  were  opened  by  two  lackeys 
in  cherry-colored  silk  and  velvet  livery;  a  butler,  look 
ing  like  an  English  gentleman,  was  waiting  to  receive 
them  at  the  top  of  a  short  flight  of  marble  steps  be 
tween  the  outer  and  the  inner  entrance  doors.  As  Mil 
dred  ascended,  she  happened  to  note  the  sculpturing 
over  the  inner  entrance  —  a  reclining  nude  figure  of  a 
woman,  Cupids  with  garlands  and  hymeneal  torches 
hovering  about  her. 

Mildred  had  been  in  many  pretentious  houses  in  and 

48 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


near  New  York,  but  this  far  surpassed  the  grandest  of 
them.  Everything  was  brand  new,  seemed  to  have  been 
only  that  moment  placed,  and  was  of  the  costliest  — 
statuary,  carpets,  armor,  carved  seats  of  stone  and 
wood,  marble  staircase  rising  majestically,  tapestries, 
pictures,  drawing-room  furniture.  The  hall  was  vast, 
but  the  drawing-room  was  vaster.  Empty,  one  would 
have  said  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  furnished.  Yet 
it  was  not  only  full,  but  crowded  —  chairs  and  sofas, 
hassocks  and  tete-a-tetes,  cabinets,  tables,  pictures, 
statues,  busts,  palms,  flowers,  a  mighty  fireplace  in 
which,  behind  enormous  and  costly  andirons,  crackled 
enormous  and  costly  logs.  There  was  danger  in  mov 
ing  about ;  one  could  not  be  sure  of  not  upsetting  some 
thing,  and  one  felt  that  the  least  damage  that  could  be 
done  there  would  be  an  appallingly  expensive  matter. 

Before  that  cavernous  fireplace  posed  General  Sid- 
dall.  He  was  a  tiny  mite  of  a  man  with  a  thin  wiry 
body  supporting  the  head  of  a  professional  barber. 
His  black  hair  was  glossy  and  most  romantically  ar 
ranged.  His  black  mustache  and  imperial  were  waxed 
and  brilliantined.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  liberal 
use  of  dye,  also.  From  the  rather  thin,  very  sharp 
face  looked  a  pair  of  small,  muddy,  brown-green  eyes 
—  dull,  crafty,  cold,  cruel.  But  the  little  man  was  so 
insignificant  and  so  bebarbered  and  betailored  that  one 
could  not  take  him  seriously.  Never  had  there  been  so 
new,  so  carefully  pressed,  so  perfectly  fitting  evening 
clothes;  never  a  shirt  so  expensively  got  together,  or 
jeweled  studs,  waistcoat  buttons  and  links  so  high 
priced.  From  every  part  of  the  room,  from  every  part 

49 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


of  the  little  man's  perfumed  and  groomed  person,  every 
individual  article  seemed  to  be  shrieking1,  "  The  best  is 
not  too  good  for  Bill  Siddall!  " 

Mildred  was  agreeably  surprised  —  she  was  looking 
with  fierce  determination  for  agreeable  surprises  — 
when  the  costly  little  man  spoke,  in  a  quiet,  pleasant 
voice  with  an  elusive,  attractive  foreign  accent. 

"  My,  but  this  is  grand  —  grand,  General  Siddall !  " 
said  Presbury  in  the  voice  of  the  noisy  flatterer. 
"Princely!  Royal!" 

Mildred  glanced  nervously  at  Siddall.  She  feared 
that  Presbury  had  taken  the  wrong  tone.  She  saw  in 
the  unpleasant  eyes  a  glance  of  gratified  vanity.  Said 
he: 

"  Not  so  bad,  not  so  bad.  I  saw  the  house  in  Paris, 
when  I  was  taking  a  walk  one  day.  I  went  to  the 
American  ambassador  and  asked  for  the  best  architect 
in  Paris.  I  went  to  him,  told  him  about  the  house  — 
and  here  it  is." 

"  Decorations,  furniture,  and  all !  "  exclaimed  Pres 
bury. 

"  No,  just  the  house.  I  picked  up  the  interiors  in 
different  parts  of  Europe  —  had  everything  reproduced 
where  I  couldn't  buy  outright.  I  want  to  enjoy  my 
money  while  I'm  still  young.  I  didn't  care  what  it  cost 
to  get  the  proper  surroundings.  As  I  said  to  my  archi 
tect  and  to  my  staff  of  artists,  I  expected  to  be  cheated, 
but  I  wanted  the  goods.  And  I  got  the  goods.  I'll 
show  you  through  the  house  after  dinner.  It's  on  this 
same  scale  throughout.  And  they're  putting  me  to 
gether  a  country  place  —  same  sort  of  thing."  He 

50 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


threw  back  his  little  shoulders  and  protruded  his  little 
chest.  "  And  the  j  oke  of  it  is  that  the  whole  business 
isn't  costing  me  a  cent." 

"  Not  a  cent  less  than  half  a  dozen  or  a  dozen  mil 
lions,"  said  Presbury. 

"  Not  so  much  as  that  —  not  quite,"  protested  the 
delightedly  sparkling  little  general.  "  But  what  I 
meant  was  that,  as  fast  as  these  fellows  spend,  I  go 
down-town  and  make.  Fact  is,  I'm  a  little  better  off 
than  I  was  when  I  started  in  to  build." 

"  Well,  you  didn't  get  any  of  my  money,"  laughed 
Presbury.  "  But  I  suppose  pretty  much  everybody 
else  in  the  country  must  have  contributed." 

General  Siddall  smiled.  Mildred  wondered  whether 
the  points  of  his  mustache  and  imperial  would  crack 
and  break  off,  if  he  should  touch  them.  She  noted  that 
his  hair  was  reached  absurdly  high  above  the  middle 
of  his  forehead  and  that  he  was  wearing  the  tallest  heels 
she  had  ever  seen.  She  calculated  that,  with  his  hair 
flat  and  his  feet  on  the  ground,  he  would  hardly  come 
to  her  shoulder  —  and  she  was  barely  of  woman's 
medium  height.  She  caught  sight  of  his  hands  —  the 
square,  stubby  hands  of  a  working  man;  the  fingers 
permanently  slightly  curved  as  by  the  handle  of  shovel 
and  pick;  the  skin  shriveled  but  white  with  a  ghastly, 
sickening  bleached  white,  the  nails  repulsively  mani 
cured  into  long  white  curves.  "  If  he  should  touch 
me,  I'd  scream,"  she  thought.  And  then  she  looked  at 
Presbury  —  and  around  her  at  the  evidences  of  enor 
mous  wealth. 

The  general  —  she  wondered  where  he  had  got  that 

51 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


title  —  led  her  mother  in  to  dinner,  Presbury  gave  her 
his  arm.  On  the  way  he  found  opportunity  to  mutter: 

"Lay  it  on  thick!  Flatter  the  fool.  You  can't  of 
fend  him.  Tell  him  he's  divinely  handsome  —  a  Louis 
Fourteen,  a  Napoleon.  Praise  everything  —  napkins, 
tablecloth,  dishes,  food.  Rave  over  the  wine." 

But  Mildred  could  not  adopt  this  obviously  excellent 
advice.  She  sat  silent  and  cold,  while  Presbury  and 
her  mother  raved  and  drew  out  the  general  to  talk  of 
himself  —  the  only  subject  in  the  whole  world  that 
seemed  to  him  thoroughly  worth  while.  As  Mildred 
listened  and  furtively  observed,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
this  tiny  fool,  so  obviously  pleased  by  these  coarse  and 
insulting  flatteries,  could  not  possibly  have  had  the 
brains  to  amass  the  vast  fortune  he  apparently  pos 
sessed.  But  presently  she  noted  that  behind  the  person 
ality  that  was  pleased  by  this  gross  fawning  and 
bootlicking  there  lay  —  lay  in  wait  and  on  guard  — 
another  personality,  one  that  despised  these  guests  of 
his,  estimating  them  at  their  true  value  and  using  them 
contemptuously  for  the  gratification  of  his  coarse  ap 
petites.  In  the  glimpse  she  caught  of  that  deeper  and 
real  personality,  she  liked  it  even  less  than  she  liked 
the  one  upon  the  surface. 

It  was  evidence  of  superior  acumen  that  she  saw  even 
vaguely  the  real  Bill  Siddall,  the  money-maker,  beneath 
the  General  William  Siddall,  raw  and  ignorant  and 
vulgar  —  more  vulgar  in  his  refinement  than  the  most 
shocking  bum  at  home  and  at  ease  in  foul-smelling  stew. 
Every  man  of  achievement  hides  beneath  his  surface- 
personality  this  second  and  real  man,  who  makes  the 

52 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


fortune,  discovers  the  secret  of  chemistry,  fights  the 
battle,  carries  the  election,  paints  the  picture,  commits 
the  frightful  murder,  evolves  the  divine  sermon  or  poem 
or  symphony.  Thus,  when  we  meet  a  man  of  achieve 
ment,  we  invariably  have  a  sense  of  disappointment. 
"Why,  that's  not  the  man!"  we  exclaim.  "There 
must  be  some  mistake."  And  it  is,  indeed,  not  the  man. 
Him  we  are  incapable  of  seeing.  We  have  only  eyes 
for  surfaces ;  and,  not  being  doers  of  extraordinary 
deeds,  but  mere  plodders  in  the  routines  of  existence, 
we  cannot  believe  that  there  is  any  more  to  another  than 
there  is  to  ourselves.  The  pleasant  or  unpleasant  sur 
face  for  the  conventional  relations  of  life  is  about  all 
there  is  to  us;  therefore  it  is  all  there  is  to  human 
nature.  Well,  there's  no  help  for  it.  In  measuring  our 
fellow  beings  we  can  use  only  the  measurements  of  our 
own  selves ;  we  have  no  others,  and  if  others  are  given  to 
us  we  are  as  foozled  as  one  knowing  only  feet  and 
inches  who  has  a  tape  marked  off  in  meters  and  centi 
meters. 

It  so  happened  that  in  her  social  excursions  Mildred 
had  never  been  in  any  of  the  numerous  homes  of  the 
suddenly  and  vastly  rich  of  humble  origin.  She  was 
used  to  —  and  regarded  as  proper  and  elegant  —  the 
ordinary  ostentations  and  crudities  of  the  rich  of  con 
ventional  society.  No  more  than  you  or  I  was  she 
moved  to  ridicule  or  disdain  by  the  silliness  and  the 
tawdry  vulgarity  of  the  life  of  palace  and  liveried 
lackey  and  empty  ceremonial,  by  the  tedious  entertain 
ments,  by  the  displays  of  costly  and  poisonous  food. 
But  General  Siddall's  establishment  presented  a  new 

53 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


phase  to  her  —  and  she  thought  it  unique  in  dreadful- 
ness  and  absurdity. 

The  general  had  had  a  home  life  in  his  youth  —  in  a 
coal-miner's  cabin  near  Wilkes-Barre.  Ever  since,  he 
had  lived  in  boarding-houses  or  hotels.  As  his  shrewd 
and  rapacious  mind  had  gathered  in  more  and  more 
wealth,  he  had  lived  more  and  more  luxuriously  —  but 
always  at  hotels.  He  had  seen  little  of  the  private  life 
of  the  rich.  Thus  he  had  been  compelled  to  get  his 
ideas  of  luxury  and  of  ceremonial  altogether  from  the 
hotel-keepers  and  caterers  who  give  the  rich  what  the 
more  intelligent  and  informed  of  the  rich  are  usually 
shamed  by  people  of  taste  from  giving  themselves  at 
home. 

She  thought  the  tablecloth,  napkins,  and  gaudy  gold 
and  flowery  cut  glass  a  little  overdone,  but  on  the  whole 
not  so  bad.  She  had  seen  such  almost  as  grand  at  a 
few  New  York  houses.  The  lace  in  the  cloth  and  in 
the  napkins  was  merely  a  little  too  magnificent.  It 
made  the  table  lumpy,  it  made  the  napkins  unfit  for  use. 
But  the  way  the  dinner  was  served!  You  would  have 
said  you  were  in  a  glorified  palace-hotel  restaurant. 
You  looked  about  for  the  cashier's  desk ;  you  were  cer 
tain  a  bill  would  be  presented  after  the  last  course. 

The  general,  tinier  and  more  grotesque  than  ever  in 
the  great  high-backed,  richly  carved  armchair,  surveyed 
the  progress  of  the  banquet  with  the  air  of  a  god  per 
forming  miracles  of  creation  and  passing  them  in  re 
view  and  giving  them  his  divine  endorsement.  He  was 
well  pleased  with  the  enthusiastic  praises  Presbury  and 
his  wife  lavished  upon  the  food  and  drink.  He  would 

54 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


have  been  better  pleased  had  they  preceded  and  followed 
every  mouthful  with  a  eulogy.  He  supplemented  their 
compliments  with  even  more  fulsome  compliments,  add 
ing  details  as  to  the  origin  and  the  cost. 

"Darcy"— this  to  the  butler — "  teU  the  chef  that 
this  fish  is  the  best  yet  —  really  exquisite."  To  Pres- 
bury :  "  I  had  it  brought  over  from  France  —  alive, 
of  course.  We  have  many  excellent  fish,  but  I  like  a 
change  now  and  then.  So  I  have  a  standing  order  with 
Prunier  —  he's  the  big  oyster-  and  fish-man  of  Paris  — 
to  send  me  over  some  things  every  two  weeks  by  special 
express.  That  way,  an  oyster  costs  about  fifty  cents 
and  a  fish  about  five  or  six  dollars." 

To  Mrs.  Presbury :  "  I'll  have  Darcy  make  you  and 
Miss  Presbury  —  excuse  me,  Miss  Gower  —  bouquets 
of  the  flowers  afterward.  Most  of  them  come  from 
New  York  —  and  very  high  really  first-class  flowers  are. 
I  pay  two  dollars  apiece  for  my  roses  even  at  this  sea 
son.  And  orchids  —  well,  I  feel  really  extravagant 
when  I  indulge  in  orchids  as  I  have  this  evening.  Ten 
dollars  apiece  for  those.  But  they're  worth  it." 

The  dinner  was  interminably  long  —  upward  of 
twenty  kinds  of  food,  no  less  than  five  kinds  of  wine ; 
enough  served  and  spoiled  to  have  fed  and  intoxicated  a 
dozen  people  at  least.  And  upon  every  item  of  food 
and  drink  the  general  had  some  remarks  to  make.  He 
impressed  it  upon  his  guests  that  this  dinner  was  very 
little  better  than  the  one  served  to  him  every  night,  that 
the  increase  in  expense  and  luxury  was  not  in  their 
honor,  but  in  his  own  —  to  show  them  what  he  could 
do  when  he  wished  to  make  a  holiday.  Finally  the 

55 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


grand  course  was  reached.  Into  the  dining-room,  to 
the  amazement  of  the  guests,  were  rolled  two  great 
restaurant  joint  wagons.  Instead  of  being  made  of 
silver-plated  nickel  or  plain  nickel  they  were  of  silver 
embossed  with  gold,  and  the  large  carvers  and  serving- 
spoons  and  forks  had  gold-mounted  silver  handles. 
When  the  lackeys  turned  back  the  covers  there  were  dis 
closed  several  truly  wonderful  young  turkeys,  fattened 
as  if  by  painstaking  and  skillful  hand  and  superbly 
browned. 

Up  to  that  time  the  rich  and  costly  food  had  been 
sadly  medium  —  like  the  wines.  But  these  turkeys  were 
a  genuine  triumph.  Even  Mildred  gave  them  a  look  of 
interest  and  admiration.  In  a  voice  that  made  General 
Siddall  ecstatic  Presbury  cried: 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  Where  did  you  get  those  beau 
ties,  old  man !  " 

"  Paris,"  said  Siddall  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  pride 
and  self -admiration.  You  would  have  thought  that  he 
had  created  not  merely  the  turkeys,  but  Paris,  also. 
"  Potin  sends  them  over  to  me.  Potin,  you  know,  is  the 
finest  dealer  in  groceries,  fruit,  game,  and  so  on  in  the 
world.  I  have  a  standing  order  with  him  for  the  best  of 
everything  that  comes  in.  ,  I'd  hate  to  tell  you  what  my 
bill  with  Potin  is  every  month  —  he  only  sends  it  to  me 
once  a  year.  Really,  I  think  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself,  but  I  reason  that,  if  a  man  can  afford  it,  he's 
a  fool  to  put  anything  but  the  best  into  his  stomach." 

"  You're  right  there ! "  mumbled  Presbury.  His 
mouth  was  full  of  turkey.  "  You  have  got  a  chef, 
General!" 

56 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  He  ought  to  cook  well.  I  pay  him  more  than  most 
bank-presidents  get.  What  do  you  think  of  those  joint 
wagons,  Mrs.  Presbury?" 

"  They're  very  —  interesting,"  replied  she,  a  little 
nervous  because  she  suspected  they  were  some  sort  of 
vulgar  joke. 

"  I  knew  you'd  like  them,"  said  the  general.  "  My 
own  idea  entirely.  I  saw  them  in  several  restaurants 
abroad  —  only  of  course  those  they  had  were  just  ordi 
nary  affairs,  not  fit  to  be  introduced  into  a  gentleman's 
dining-room.  But  I  took  the  idea  and  adapted  it  to  my 
purposes  —  and  there  you  are !  " 

"  Very  original,  old  man,"  said  Presbury,  who  had 
been  drinking  too  much.  "  I've  never  seen  it  before, 
and  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall  again.  Got  the  idea 
patented?  " 

But  Siddall  in  his  soberest  moment  would  have  been 
slow  to  admit  a  suspicion  that  any  of  the  human  race, 
which  he  regarded  as  on  its  knees  before  him,  was  ven 
turing  to  poke  fun  at  him.  Drunk  as  he  now  was,  the 
openest  sarcasm  would  have  been  accepted  as  a  compli 
ment.  After  a  gorgeous  dessert  which  nobody  more 
than  touched  —  a  molded  mousse  of  whipped  and  frozen 
cream  and  strawberries  — "  specially  sent  on  to  me  from 
Florida  and  costing  me  a  dollar  apiece,  I  guess  " —  after 
this  costly  wonder  had  disappeared  fruit  was  served. 
General  Siddall  had  ready  a  long  oration  upon  this 
course.  He  delivered  it  in  a  disgustingly  thick  tone. 
The  pineapple  was  an  English  hothouse  product,  the 
grapes  were  grown  by  a  costly  process  under  glass  in 
Belgium.  As  for  the  peaches,  Potin  had  sent  those  deli- 

57 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


cately  blushing  marvels,  and  the  charge  for  this  would 
be  "  not  less  than  a  louis  apiece,  sir  —  a  louis  d'or 
—  which,  as  you  no  doubt  know,  is  about  four  dollars 
of  Uncle  Sam's  money." 

The  coffee  — "  the  Queen  of  Holland  may  have  it  on 
her  private  table  —  may,  I  say  —  but  I  doubt  if  any 
one  else  in  the  world  gets  a  smell  of  it  except  me  " — 
the  coffee  and  the  brandy  came  not  a  moment  too  soon. 
Presbury  was  becoming  stupefied  with  indigestion;  his 
wife  was  nodding  and  was  wearing  that  vague,  forced, 
pleasant  smile  which  stands  propriety-guard  over  a 
mind  asleep;  Mildred  Gower  felt  that  her  nerves  would 
endure  no  more ;  and  the  general  was  falling  into  a  be 
sotted  state,  spilling  his  wine,  mumbling  his  words. 
The  coffee  and  the  brandy  revived  them  all  somewhat. 
Mildred,  lifting  her  eyes,  saw  by  way  of  a  mirrored 
section  of  the  enormous  sideboard  the  English  butler 
surveying  master  and  guests  with  slowly  moving,  sneer 
ing  glance  of  ineffable  contempt. 

In  the  drawing-room  again  Mildred,  requested  by 
Siddall  and  ordered  by  Presbury,  sang  a  little  French 
song  and  then  —  at  the  urging  of  Siddall  — "  Annie 
Laurie."  Siddall  was  wiping  his  eyes  when  she  turned 
around.  He  said  to  Presbury: 

"  Take  your  wife  into  the  conservatory  to  look  at  my 
orchids.  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  your  stepdaughter." 

Mildred  started  up  nervously.  She  saw  how  drunk 
the  general  was,  saw  the  expression  of  his  face  that  a 
woman  has  to  be  innocent  indeed  not  to  understand. 
She  was  afraid  to  be  left  alone  with  him.  Presbury 
came  up  to  her,  said  rapidly,  in  a  low  tone : 

58 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  It's  all  right.  He's  got  a  high  sense  of  what's  due 
a  respectable  woman  of  our  class.  He  isn't  as  drunk 
as  he  looks  and  acts." 

Having  said  which,  he  took  his  wife  by  the  arm  and 
pushed  her  into  the  adjoining  conservatory.  Mildred 
reseated  herself  upon  the  inlaid  piano-bench.  The  little 
man,  his  face  now  shiny  with  the  sweat  of  drink  and 
emotion,  drew  up  a  chair  in  front  of  her.  He  sat  — 
and  he  was  almost  as  tall  sitting  as  standing.  He  said 
graciously : 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear  girl.  I'm  not  that  dan 
gerous." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  She  tried  to 
conceal  her  aversion ;  she  feared  she  was  not  succeeding. 
But  she  need  not  have  concerned  herself  about  that. 
General  Siddall,  after  the  manner  of  very  rich  men, 
could  not  conceive  of  anyone  being  less  impressed  with 
his  superiority  in  any  way  than  he  himself  was.  For 
years  he  had  heard  only  flatteries  of  himself  —  his  own 
voice  singing  his  praises,  the  fawning  voices  of  those 
he  hired  and  of  those  hoping  to  get  some  financial  ad 
vantage.  He  could  not  have  imagined  a  mere  woman 
not  being  overwhelmed  by  the  prospect  of  his  courting 
her.  Nor  would  it  have  entered  his  head  that  his  money 
would  be  the  chief,  much  less  the  only,  consideration 
with  her.  He  had  long  since  lost  all  point  of  view,  and 
believed  that  the  adulation  paid  his  wealth  was  evoked 
by  his  charms  of  person,  mind,  and  manner.  Those 
who  imagine  this  was  evidence  of  folly  and  weak-mind 
edness  and  extraordinary  vanity  show  how  little  they 
know  human  nature.  The  strongest  head  could  not  re- 

59 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


main  steady,  the  most  accurate  eyes  could  not  retain 
their  measuring  skill,  in  such  an  environment  as  always 
completely  envelops  wealth  and  power.  And  the  much- 
talked-of  difference  between  those  born  to  wealth  and 
power  and  those  who  rise  to  it  from  obscurity  resolves 
itself  to  little  more  than  the  difference  between  those 
born  mad  and  those  who  go  insane. 

Looking  at  the  little  man  with  the  disagreeable  eyes, 
so  dull  yet  so  shrewd,  Mildred  saw  that  within  the  drunk 
ard  who  could  scarcely  sit  straight  upon  the  richly 
upholstered  and  carved  gilt  chair  there  was  another  per 
son,  coldly  sober,  calmly  calculating.  And  she  real 
ized  that  it  was  this  person  with  whom  she  was  about  to 
have  the  most  serious  conversation  of  her  life  thus  far. 

The  drunkard  smiled  with  a  repulsive  wiping  and 
smacking  of  the  thin,  sensual  lips.  "  I  suppose  you 
know  why  I  had  you  brought  here  this  evening?  "  said 
he. 

Mildred  looked  and  waited. 

"  I  didn't  intend  to  say  anything  to-night.  In  fact, 
I  didn't  expect  to  find  in  you  what  I've  been  looking 
for.  I  thought  that  old  fool  of  a  stepfather  of  yours 
was  cracking  up  his  goods  beyond  their  merits.  But 
he  wasn't.  My  dear,  you  suit  me  from  the  ground 
up.  I've  been  looking  you  over  carefully.  You  were 
made  for  the  place  I  want  to  fill." 

Mildred  had  lowered  her  eyes.  Her  face  had  become 
deathly  pale.  "  I  feel  faint,"  she  murmured.  "  It  is 
very  warm  here." 

"  You're  not  sickly  ?  "  inquired  the  general  sharply. 
"  You  look  like  a  good  solid  woman  —  thin  but  wiry. 

60 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Ever  been  sick?     I  must  look  into  your  health.     That's 
a  point  on  which  I  must  be  satisfied." 

A  wave  of  anger  swept  through  her,  restoring  her 
strength.  She  was  about  to  speak  —  a  rebuke  to  his 
colossal  impudence  that  he  would  not  soon  forget. 
Then  she  remembered,  and  bit  her  lips. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  decide  to-night,"  pursued  he, 
hastening  to  explain  this  concession  by  adding :  "  I 
don't  intend  to  decide,  myself.  All  I  say  is  that  I  am 
willing  —  if  the  goods  are  up  to  the  sample." 

Mildred  saw  her  stepfather  and  her  mother  watch 
ing  from  just  within  the  conservatory  door.  A  move 
ment  of  the  portiere  at  the  door  into  the  hall  let  her 
know  that  Darcy,  the  butler,  was  peeping  and  listening 
there.  She  stood  up,  clenched  her  hands,  struck  them 
together,  struck  them  against  her  temples,  crossed  the 
room  swiftly,  flung  herself  down  upon  a  sofa,  and  burst 
into  tears.  Presbury  and  his  wife  entered.  Siddall 
was  standing,  looking  after  Mildred  with  a  grin.  He 
winked  at  Presbury  and  said: 

"  I  guess  we  gave  her  too  much  of  that  wine.  It's 
all  old  and  stronger  than  you'd  think." 

"  My  daughter  hardly  touched  her  glasses,"  cried 
Mrs.  Presbury. 

"  I  know  that,  ma'am,"  replied  Siddall.  "  I  watched 
her.  If  she'd  done  much  drinking,  I'd  have  been  done, 
then  and  there." 

"  I  suspect  she's  upset  by  what  you've  been  saying, 
General,"  said  Presbury.  "  Wasn't  it  enough  to  upset 
a  girl?  You  don't  realize  how  magnificent  you  are  — 
how  magnificent  everything  is  here." 

61 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I'm  sorry  if  I  upset  her,"  said  the  general,  swelling 
and  loftily  contrite.  "  I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  peo 
ple  never  seem  to  be  able  to  act  natural  with  me."  He 
hated  those  who  did,  regarding  them  as  sodden,  un- 
appreciative  fools. 

Mrs.  Presbury  was  quieting  her  daughter.  Presbury 
and  Siddall  lighted  cigars  and  went  into  the  smoking- 
and  billiard-room  across  the  hall.  Said  Presbury : 

"  I  didn't  deceive  you,  did  I,  General?  " 

"  She's  entirely  satisfactory,"  replied  Siddall.  "  I'm 
going  to  make  careful  inquiries  about  her  character  and 
her  health.  If  those  things  prove  to  be  all  right  I'm 
ready  to  go  ahead." 

"  Then  the  thing's  settled,"  said  Presbury.  "  She's 
all  that  a  lady  should  be.  And  except  a  cold  now  and 
then  she  never  has  anything  the  matter  with  her.  She 
comes  of  good  healthy  stock." 

"  I  can't  stand  a  sickly,  ailing  woman,"  said  SiddaU. 
" 1  wouldn't  marry  one,  and  if  one  I  married  turned  out 
to  be  that  kind,  I'd  make  short  work  of  her.  When  you 
get  right  down  to  facts,  what  is  a  woman?  Why,  a 
body.  If  she  ain't  pretty  and  well,  she  ain't  nothing. 
While  I'm  looking  up  her  pedigree,  so  to  speak,  I  want 
you  to  get  her  mother  to  explain  to  her  just  what  kind 
of  a  man  I  am." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Presbury. 

"  Have  her  told  that  I  don't  put  up  with  foolishness. 
If  she  wants  to  look  at  a  man,  let  her  look  at  me." 

"  You'll  have  no  trouble  in  that  way,"  said  Presbury. 

"  I  did  have  trouble  in  that  way,"  replied  the  general 
sourly.  "  Women  are  fools  —  all  women.  But  the 

62 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


principal  trouble  with  the  second  Mrs.  Siddall  was  that 
she  wasn't  a  lady  born." 

"  That's  why  I  say  you'll  have  no  trouble,"  said 
Presbury. 

"  Well,  I  want  her  mother  to  talk  to  her  plainer  than 
a  gentleman  can  talk  to  a  young  lady.  I  want  her  to 
understand  that  I  am  marrying  so  that  I  can  have  a 
wife  —  cheerful,  ready,  and  healthy.  I'll  not  put  up 
with  foolishness  of  any  kind." 

"I  understand,"  said  Presbury.  "You'll  find  that 
she'll  meet  all  your  conditions." 

"Explain  to  her  that,  while  I'm  the  easiest,  most 
liberal-spending  man  in  the  world  when  I'm  getting 
what  I  want,  I  am  just  the  opposite  when  I'm  not  get 
ting  what  I  pay  for.  If  I  take  her  and  if  she  acts  right, 
she'll  have  more  of  everything  that  women  want  than 
any  woman  in  the  world.  I'd  take  a  pride  in  my  wife. 
There  isn't  anything  I  wouldn't  spend  in  showing  her 
off  to  advantage.  And  I'm  willing  to  be  liberal  with 
her  mother,  too." 

Presbury  had  been  hoping  for  this.  His  eyes  spar 
kled.  "  You're  a  prince,  General,"  he  said.  "  A  gen 
uine  prince.  You  know  how  to  do  things  right." 

"  I  flatter  myself  I  do,"  said  the  general.  "  I've 
been  up  and  down  the  world,  and  I  tell  you  most  of  the 
kings  live  cheap  beside  me.  And  when  I  get  a  wife 
worth  showing  off,  I'll  do  still  better.  I've  got  wonder 
ful  creative  ability.  There  isn't  anything  I  can't  and 
won't  buy." 

Presbury  noted  uneasily  how  cold  and  straight,  how 
obviously  repelled  and  repelling  the  girl  was  as  she 

63 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


yielded  her  fingers  to  Siddall  at  the  leave-taking.  He 
and  her  mother  covered  the  silence  and  ice  with  hot  and 
voluble  sycophantry.  They  might  have  spared  them 
selves  the  exertion.  To  Siddall  Mildred  was  at  her 
most  fascinating  when  she  was  thus  "  the  lady  and  the 
queen."  The  final  impression  she  made  upon  him  was 
the  most  favorable  of  all. 

In  the  cab  Mrs.  Presbury  talked  out  of  the  fullness 
of  an  overflowing  heart.  "  What  a  remarkable  man 
the  general  is ! "  said  she.  "  You've  only  to  look  at 
him  to  realize  that  you're  in  the  presence  of  a  really 
superior  person.  And  what  tact  he  has !  —  and  how 
generous  he  is!  —  and  how  beautifully  he  entertains! 
So  much  dignity  —  so  much  simplicity  —  so  much  — " 

"  Fiddlesticks !  "  interrupted  Presbury.  "  Your 
daughter  isn't  a  damn  fool,  Mrs.  Presbury." 

Mildred  gave  a  short,  dry  laugh. 

Up  flared  her  mother.  "  I  mean  every  word  I  said !  " 
cried  she.  "  If  I  hadn't  admired  and  appreciated  him, 
I'd  certainly  not  have  acted  as  I  did.  I  couldn't  stoop 
to  such  hypocrisy." 

"  Fiddlesticks !  "  sneered  Presbury.  "  Bill  Siddall  is 
a  horror.  His  house  is  a  horror.  His  dinner  was  a 
horror.  These  loathsome  rich  people!  They're  ruin 
ing  the  world  —  as  they  always  have.  They're  making 
it  impossible  for  anyone  to  get  good  service  or  good 
food  or  good  furniture  or  good  clothing  or  good  any 
thing.  They  don't  know  good  things,  and  they  pay 
exorbitant  prices  for  showy  trash,  for  crude  vulgar 
luxury.  They  corrupt  taste.  They  make  everyone 
round  them  or  near  them  sycophants  and  cheats.  They 

64 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


substitute  money  for  intelligence  and  discrimination. 
They  degrade  every  fine  thing  in  life.  Civilization  is 
built  up  by  brains  and  hard  work,  and  along  come  the 
rich  and  rot  and  ruin  it !  " 

Mildred  and  her  mother  were  listening  in  astonish 
ment.  Said  the  mother: 

"  I'd  be  ashamed  to  confess  myself  such  a  hypocrite." 

"  And  I,  madam,  would  be  ashamed  to  be  such  a 
hypocrite  without  taking  a  bath  of  confession  after 
ward,"  retorted  Presbury. 

"  At  least  you  might  have  waited  until  Mildred 
wasn't  in  hearing,"  snapped  she. 

"  I  shall  marry  him  if  I  can,"  said  Mildred. 

"  And  blissfully  happy  you'll  be,"  said  Presbury. 
"  Women,  ladies  —  true  ladies,  like  you  and  your 
mother  —  have  no  sensibilities.  All  you  ask  is  luxury. 
If  Bill  Siddall  were  a  thousand  times  worse  than  he  is, 
his  money  would  buy  him  almost  any  refined,  delicate 
lady  anywhere  in  Christendom." 

Mrs.  Presbury  laughed  angrily.  "  You,  talking  like 
this  —  you  of  all  men.  Is  there  anything  you  wouldn't 
stoop  to  for  money  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  laid  myself  open  to  that  charge  by 
marrying  you  ?  "  said  Presbury,  made  cheerful  despite 
his  savage  indigestion  by  the  opportunity  for  effective 
insult  she  had  given  him  and  he  had  promptly  seized. 
"  I  am  far  too  gallant  to  agree  with  you.  But  I'm 
also  too  gallant  to  contradict  a  lady.  By  the  way, 
you  must  be  careful  in  dealing  with  Siddall.  Rich  peo 
ple  like  to  be  fawned  on,  but  not  to  be  slobbered  on. 
You  went  entirely  too  far." 

65 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mrs.  Presbury,  whom  indigestion  had  rendered  stupid, 
could  think  of  no  reply.  So  she  burst  into  tears. 
"  And  my  own  daughter  sitting  silent  while  that  man 
insults  her  mother ! "  she  sobbed. 

Mildred  sat  stiff  and  cold. 

"  It'll  be  a  week  before  I  recover  from  that  dinner," 
Presbury  went  on  sourly.  "  What  a  dinner !  What  a 
villainous  mess!  These  vulgar,  showy  rich!  That 
champagne!  He  said  it  cost  him  six  dollars  a  bottle, 
and  no  doubt  it  did.  I  doubt  if  it  ever  saw  France. 
The  dealers  rarely  waste  genuine  wine  on  such  cattle. 
The  wine-cellars  of  fine  houses  the  world  through  are 
the  laughing-stock  of  connoisseurs  —  like  their  picture- 
galleries  and  their  other  attempts  to  make  money  do  the 
work  of  taste.  I  forgot  to  put  my  pills  in  my  bag. 
I'll  h:.ve  to  hunt  up  an  all-night  drug-store.  I'd  not 
dare  go  to  bed  without  taking  an  antidote  for  that 
poison." 

But  Presbury  had  not  been  altogether  improvident. 
He  had  hoped  great  things  of  Bill  Siddall's  wine-cellar 
—  this  despite  an  almost  unbroken  series  of  bitter  dis- 
illusionments  and  disappointments  in  experience  with 
those  who  had  the  wealth  to  buy,  if  they  had  had  the 
taste  to  select,  the  fine  wines  he  loved.  So,  resolving 
to  indulge  himself,  he  had  put  into  his  bag  his  pair  of 
gout-boots. 

This  was  a  device  of  his  own  inventing,  on  which  he 
prided  himself.  It  consisted  of  a  pair  of  roomy  doe 
skin  slippers  reenforced  with  heavy  soles  and  provided 
with  a  set  of  three  thin  insoles  to  be  used  according  as 
the  state  of  his  toes  made  advisable.  The  cost  of  the 

66 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Presbury  gout-boot  had  been,  thanks  to  patient  search 
for  a  cheap  cobbler,  something  under  four  dollars  — 
this,  when  men  paid  shoe  specialists  twenty,  thirty,  and 
even  forty  dollars  a  pair  for  gout-boots  that  gave  less 
comfort.  The  morning  after  the  dinner  at  which  he 
had  drunk  to  drown  his  chagrin  and  to  give  him  courage 
and  tongue  for  sycophantry,  he  put  on  the  boots. 
Without  them  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  carry  him 
from  his  room  to  a  cab  and  from  cab  to  train.  With 
them  he  was  able  to  hobble  to  a  street-car.  He  tried 
to  distract  his  mind  from  his  sufferings  by  lashing 
away  without  ceasing  at  his  wife  and  his  step 
daughter. 

When  they  were  once  more  at  home,  and  the  mother 
and  daughter  escaped  from  him,  the  mother  said: 

"  I  was  glad  to  see  that  you  put  up  with  that  wretch, 
and  didn't  answer  him  back." 

"  Of  course/'  said  Mildred.  "  He's  mad  to  be  rid 
of  me,  but  if  I  offended  him  he  might  snatch  away  this 
chance." 

"  He  would,"  said  Mrs.  Presbury.  "  I'm  sure  he 
would.  But  — "  she  laughed  viciously  — "  once  you're 
married  you  can  revenge  yourself  —  and  me !  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mildred  thoughtfully. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  exclaimed  her  mother,  irritated. 

"  I  can't  make  Mr.  Presbury  out,"  replied  the  girl. 
"  I  understand  why  he's  helping  me  to  this  chance,  but 
I  don't  understand  why  he  isn't  making  friends  with  me, 
in  the  hope  of  getting  something  after  I'm  married." 

Her  mother  saw  the  point,  and  was  instantly  agitated. 
"  Perhaps  he's  simply  leading  you  on,  intending  to  up- 

67  ' 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


set  it  all  at  the  last  minute."  She  gritted  her  teeth. 
"Oh,  what  a  wretch!" 

Mildred  was  not  heeding.  "  I  must  have  General 
Siddall  looked  up  carefully,"  she  went  on.  "  It  may 
be  that  he  isn't  rich,  or  that  he  has  another  wife 
somewhere,  or  that  there's  some  other  awful  rea 
son  why  marrying  him  would  be  even  worse  than  it 
seems." 

"  Worse  than  it  seems !  "  cried  her  mother.  "  How 
can  you  talk  so,  Milly !  The  general  seems  to  be  an 
ideal  husband  —  simply  ideal!  I  wish  /  had  your 
chance.  Any  sensible  woman  could  love  him." 

A  strange  look  came  into  the  girl's  face,  and  her 
mother  could  not  withstand  her  eyes.  "  Don't,  mother," 
she  said  quietly.  "  Either  you  take  me  for  a  fool  or 
you  are  trying  to  show  me  that  you  have  no  self-re 
spect.  I  am  not  deceiving  myself  about  what  I'm  do 
ing." 

Mrs.  Presbury  opened  her  lips  to  remonstrate, 
changed  her  mind,  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  It's  frightful 
to  be  a  woman,"  she  said. 

"  To  be  a  lady,  Mr.  Presbury  would  say,"  suggested 
Mildred. 

After  some  discussion,  they  fixed  upon  Joseph  Tilker 
as  the  best  available  investigator  of  General  Siddall. 
Tilker  had  been  head  clerk  for  Henry  Gower.  He  was 
now  in  for  himself  and  had  offered  to  look  after  any 
legal  business  Mrs.  Presbury  might  have  without 
charging  her.  He  presently  reported  that  there  was 
not  a  doubt  as  to  the  wealth  of  the  little  general. 
"  There  are  all  sorts  of  ugly  stories  about  how  he  made 

68 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


his  money,"  said  Tilker ;  "  but  all  the  great  fortunes 
have  a  scandalous  history,  and  I  doubt  if  Siddall's  is 
any  worse  than  the  others.  I  don't  see  how  it  well  could 
be.  Siddall  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  mean  and 
cruel  little  tyrant.  He  is  said  to  be  pompous,  vain, 
ignorant  — " 

"  Indeed  he's  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Presbury.  "  He's  a 
rough  diamond,  but  a  natural  gentleman.  I've  met 
him." 

"  Well,  he's  rich  enough,  and  that  was  all  you  asked 
me  to  find  out,"  said  Tilker.  "  But  I  must  warn  you, 
Mrs.  Presbury,  not  to  have  any  business  or  intimate 
personal  relations  with  him." 

Mrs.  Presbury  congratulated  herself  on  her  wisdom 
in  having  come  alone  to  hear  Tilker's  report.  She  did 
not  repeat  any  part  of  it  to  Mildred  except  what  he  had 
said  about  the  wealth.  That  she  enlarged  upon  until 
Mildred's  patience  gave  out.  She  interrupted  with  a 
shrewd : 

"  Anything  else,  mamma  ?  Anything  about  him  per 
sonally?" 

"  We've  got  to  judge  him  in  that  way  for  ourselves," 
replied  Mrs.  Presbury.  "  You  know  how  wickedly  they 
lie  about  anyone  who  has  anything." 

"  I  should  like  to  read  a  full  account  of  General  Sid 
dall,"  said  Mildred  reflectively;  "just  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity." 

Mrs.  Presbury  made  no  reply. 

Presbury  had  decided  that  it  was  best  to  make  no 
advance,  but  to  wait  until  they  heard  from  Siddall.  He 
let  a  week,  ten  days,  go  by;  then  his  impatience  got 

69 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  better  of  his  shrewdness.  He  sought  admittance 
to  the  great  man  at  the  offices  of  the  International 
Metals  and  Minerals  Company  in  Cedar  Street.  After 
being  subjected  to  varied  indignities  by  sundry  under 
strappers,  he  received  a  message  from  the  general 
through  a  secretary :  "  The  general  says  he'll  let  you 
know  when  he's  ready  to  take  up  that  matter.  He  says 
he  hasn't  got  round  to  it  yet."  Presbury  apologized 
courteously  for  his  intrusion  and  went  away,  cursing 
under  his  breath.  You  may  be  sure  that  he  made  his 
wife  and  his  stepdaughter  suffer  for  what  he  had  been 
through.  Two  weeks  more  passed  —  three  —  a  month. 
One  morning  in  the  mail  there  arrived  this  note  —  type 
written  upon  business  paper: 

JAMES  PRESBURY,  Esqr.: 

Dear  Sir: 

General  Siddall  asks  me  to  present  his  compliments 
and  to  say  that  he  will  be  pleased  if  you  and  your  wife  and 
the  young  lady  will  dine  with  him  at  his  house  next  Thurs 
day  the  seventeenth  at  half-past  seven  sharp. 

ROBERT  CHANDLESS,  Secretary. 

The  only  words  in  longhand  were  the  two  forming 
the  name  of  the  secretary.  Presbury  laughed  and 
tossed  the  note  across  the  breakfast  table  to  his  wife. 
"  You  see  what  an  ignorant  creature  he  is,"  said  he. 
"  He  imagines  he  has  done  the  thing  up  in  grand  style. 
He's  the  sort  of  man  that  can't  be  taught  manners  be 
cause  he  thinks  manners,  the  ordinary  civilities,  are  for 
the  lower  orders  of  people.  Oh,  he's  a  joke,  is  Bill 
Siddall  —  a  horrible  joke." 

70 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mrs.  Presbury  read  and  passed  the  letter  to  Mildred. 
She  simply  glanced  at  it  and  returned  it  to  her  step 
father. 

"  I'm  just  about  over  that  last  dinner,"  pursued 
Presbury.  "I'll  eat  little  Thursday  and  drink  less. 
And  I'd  advise  you  to  do  the  same,  Mrs.  Presbury." 

He  always  addressed  her  as  "  Mrs.  Presbury  "  be 
cause  he  had  discovered  that  when  so  addressed  she  al 
ways  winced,  and,  if  he  put  a  certain  tone  into  his  voice, 
she  quivered. 

"  That  dinner  aged  you  five  years,"  he  went  on. 
"  Besides,  you  drank  so  much  that  it  went  to  your  head 
and  made  you  slather  him  with  flatteries  that  irritated 
him.  He  thought  you  were  a  fool,  and  no  one  is  stupid 
enough  to  like  to  be  flattered  by  a  fool." 

Mrs.  Presbury  bridled,  swallowed  hard,  said  mildly: 
"  We'll  have  to  spend  the  night  in  town  again,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  You  and  your  daughter  may  do  as  you  like,"  said 
Presbury.  "  I  shall  return  here  that  night.  I  always 
catch  cold  in  strange  beds." 

"  We  might  as  well  all  return  here,"  said  Mildred. 
"  I  shall  not  wear  evening  dress ;  that  is?  I'll  wear  a 
high-neck  dress  and  a  hat." 

She  had  just  got  a  new  hat  that  was  peculiarly  be 
coming  to  her.  She  had  shown  Siddall  herself  at  the 
best  in  evening  attire;  another  sort  of  costume  would 
give  him  a  different  view  of  her  looks,  one  which  she 
flattered  herself  was  not  less  attractive.  But  Presbury 
interposed  an  emphatic  veto. 

"  You'll  wear  full  evening  dress,"  said  he.  "  Bare 

71 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


neck  and  arms  for  men  like  Bill  Siddall.  They  want 
to  see  what  they're  getting." 

Mildred  flushed  scarlet  and  her  lips  trembled  as 
though  she  were  about  to  cry.  In  fact,  her  emotion 
was  altogether  shame  —  a  shame  so  poignant  that  even 
Presbury  was  abashed,  and  mumbled  something  apolo 
getic.  Nevertheless  she  wore  a  low-neck  dress  on  Thurs 
day  evening,  one  as  daring  as  the  extremely  daring 
fashions  of  that  year  permitted  an  unmarried  woman 
to  wear.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Siddall  was  still  more 
costly  and  elegant-looking  than  before,  though  this 
may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  he  always  created  an 
impression  that  in  the  retrospect  of  memory  seemed  ex 
aggerated.  It  seemed  impossible  that  anyone  could  be 
so  clean,  so  polished  and  scoured,  so  groomed  and 
tailored,  so  bedecked,  so  high-heeled  and  loftily  coiffed. 
His  mean  little  countenance  with  its  grotesquely  waxed 
mustache  and  imperial  wore  an  expression  of  gracious 
benignity  that  assured  his  guests  they  need  anticipate 
no  disagreeable  news. 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  keeping  you  in  suspense 
so  long,"  said  he.  "  I'm  a  very  busy  man,  with  in 
terests  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  I  keep  house  — 
some  of  'em  bigger  than  this  —  open  and  going  in  six 
different  places.  I  always  like  to  be  at  home  wherever 
my  business  takes  me." 

Mrs.  Presbury  rolled  her  eyes.  "  Isn't  that  wonder 
ful!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  an  interesting  life  you 
must  lead ! " 

"  Oh,  so  —  so,"  replied  the  general.  "  But  I  get 
awful  lonesome.  I'm  naturally  a  domestic  man.  I 

72 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


don't  care  for  friends.  They're  expensive  and  danger 
ous.  A  man  in  my  position  is  like  a  king.  He  can't 
have  friends.  So,  if  he  hasn't  got  a  family,  he  hasn't 
got  noth  —  anything." 

"  Nothing  like  home  life,"  said  Presbury. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  cried  Mrs.  Presbury. 

The  little  general  smiled  upon  Mildred,  sitting  pale 
and  silent,  with  eyes  downcast.  "  Well,  I  don't  intend 
to  be  alone  much  longer,  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  he. 
"  And  I  may  say  that  I  can  make  a  woman  happy  if 
she's  the  right  sort  —  if  she  has  sense  enough  to  ap 
preciate  a  good  husband."  This  last  he  said  sternly, 
with  more  than  a  hint  of  his  past  matrimonial  misfor 
tunes  in  his  frown  and  in  his  voice.  "  The  trouble  with 
a  great  many  women  is  that  they're  fools  —  flighty, 
ungrateful  fools.  If  I  married  a  woman  like  that,  I'd 
make  short  work  of  her." 

"  And  she'd  deserve  it,  General,"  said  Mildred's 
mother  earnestly.  "  But  you'll  have  no  trouble  if  you 
select  a  lady  —  a  girl  who's  been  well  brought  up  and 
has  respect  for  herself." 

"  That's  my  opinion,  ma'am,"  said  the  general. 
"  I'm  convinced  that  while  a  man  can  become  a  gentle 
man,  a  woman's  got  to  be  born  a  lady  or  she  never  is 
one." 

"  Very  true,  General,"  cried  Mrs.  Presbury.  "  I 
never  thought  of  it  before,  but  it's  the  truest  thing  I 
ever  heard." 

Presbury  grinned  at  his  plate.  He  stole  a  glance  at 
Mildred.  Their  eyes  met.  She  flushed  faintly. 

"  I've  had  a  great  deal  of  experience  of  women,"  pur- 

73 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


sued  the  general.  "  In  my  boyhood  days  I  was  a  ladies' 
man.  And  of  course  since  I've  had  money  they've 
swarmed  round  me  like  bees  in  a  clover-patch." 

"  Oh,  General,  you're  far  too  modest,"  cried  Mrs. 
Presbury.  "  A  man  like  you  wouldn't  need  to  be 
afraid,  if  he  hadn't  a  cent." 

"  But  not  the  kind  of  women  I  want,"  replied  he, 
firmly  if  complacently.  "  A  lady  needs  money  to  keep 
up  her  position.  She  has  to  have  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  man  of  wealth  and  station  needs  a  lady  to  as 
sist  him  in  the  proper  kind  of  life  for  men  of  his  sort. 
So  they  need  each  other.  They've  got  to  have  each 
other.  That's  the  practical,  sensible  way  to  look  at  it." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Presbury. 

"  And  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  marry,  and  marry 
right  away.  But  we'll  come  back  to  this  later  on. 
Presbury,  you're  neglecting  that  wine." 

"  I'm  drinking  it  slowly  to  enjoy  it  better,"  said  Pres 
bury. 

The  dinner  was  the  same  unending  and  expensive 
function  that  had  wearied  them  and  upset  their  diges 
tions  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  There  was  too  much  of 
everything,  and  it  was  all  just  wrong.  The  general 
was  not  quite  so  voluble  as  he  had  been  before ;  his  gaze 
was  fixed  most  of  the  time  on  Mildred  —  roving  from 
her  lovely  face  to  her  smooth,  slender  shoulders  and  back 
again.  As  he  drank  and  ate  his  gesture  of  slightly 
smacking  his  thin  lips  seemed  to  include  an  enjoyment 
of  the  girl's  charms.  And  a  sensitive  observer  might 
have  suspected  that  she  was  not  unconscious  of  this  and 
was  suffering  some  such  pain  as  if  abhorrent  and  cruel 

74 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


lips  and  teeth  were  actually  mouthing  and  mumbling1 
her.  She  said  not  a  word  from  sitting  down  at  table 
until  they  rose  to  go  into  the  library  for  coffee. 

"  Do  tell  me  about  your  early  life,  General,"  Mrs. 
Presbury  said.  "  Only  the  other  day  Millie  was  saying 
she  wished  she  could  read  a  biography  of  your  romantic 
career." 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  rather  —  unusual,"  conceded  the 
general  with  swelling  chest  and  gently  waving  dollar- 
and-a-half -apiece  cigar. 

"  I  do  so  admire  a  man  who  carves  out  his  own  for 
tune,"  Mrs.  Presbury  went  on  —  she  had  not  obeyed 
her  husband's  injunction  as  to  the  champagne.  "  It 
seems  so  wonderful  to  me  that  a  man  could  with  his  own 
hands  just  dig  a  fortune  out  of  the  ground." 

"  He  couldn't,  ma'am,"  said  the  general,  with  gra 
cious  tolerance.  "  It  wasn't  till  I  stopped  the  fool  dig 
ging  and  hunting  around  for  gold  that  I  began  to  get 
ahead.  I  threw  away  the  pick  and  shovel  and  opened 
a  hotel."  (There  were  two  or  three  sleeping- rooms  of 
a  kind  in  that  "  hotel,"  but  it  was  rather  a  saloon  of 
the  species  known  as  "  doggery.")  "  Yes,  it  was  in  the 
hotel  that  I  got  my  start.  The  fellows  that  make  the 
money  in  mining  countries  ain't  the  prospectors  and  dig 
gers,  ma'am." 

"  Really !  "  cried  Mrs.  Presbury  breathlessly.  "  How 
interesting ! " 

"  They're  fools,  they  are,"  proceeded  the  general. 
"  No,  the  money's  made  by  the  fellows  that  grub-stake 
the  fools  —  give  'em  supplies  and  send  'em  out  to  nose 
around  in  the  mountains.  Then  them  that  find  any- 

75 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


thing  have  to  give  half  to  the  fellow  that  did  the  grub 
staking.  And  he  looks  into  the  claim,  and  if  there's 
anything  in  it,  why,  he  buys  the  fool  out.  In  mines, 
like  everywhere  else^  ma'am,  it  ain't  work,  it's  brains 
that  makes  the  money.  No  miner  ever  made  a  mining 
fortune  —  not  one.  It's  the  brainy,  foxy  fellows  that 
stay  back  in  the  camps.  I  used  to  send  out  fifty  and  a 
hundred  men  a  year.  Maybe  only  two  or  three'd  turn 
up  anything  worth  while.  No,  ma'am,  I  never  got  a 
dollar  ahead  on  my  digging.  All  the  gold  I  ever  dug 
went  right  off  for  grub  —  or  a  good  time." 

"  Wonderful !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Presbury.  "  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"  But  we're  not  here  to  talk  about  mines,"  said  the 
general,  his  eyes  upon  Mildred.  "  I've  been  looking 
into  matters  —  to  get  down  to  business  —  and  I've 
asked  you  here  to  let  you  know  that  I'm  willing  to  go 
ahead." 

Profound  silence.  Mildred  suddenly  drew  in  her 
breath  with  a  sound  so  sharp  that  the  three  others 
started  and  glanced  hastily  at  her.  But  she  made  no 
further  sign.  She  sat  still  and  cold  and  pale. 

The  general,  perfectly  at  ease,  broke  the  silence. 
"  I  think  Miss  Gower  and  I  would  get  on  faster 
alone." 

Presbury  at  once  stood  up ;  his  wife  hesitated,  her 
eyes  uneasily  upon  her  daughter.  Presbury  said: 
"  Come  on,  Alice."  She  rose  and  preceded  him  into  the 
adjoining  conservatory.  The  little  general  posed  him 
self  before  the  huge  open  fire,  one  hand  behind  him, 
the  other  at  the  level  of  his  waistcoat,  the  big  cigar  be- 

76 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


tween  his  first  and  second  fingers.     "Well,  my  dear?" 
said  he. 

Mildred  somewhat  hesitatingly  lifted  her  eyes;  but, 
once  she  had  them  up,  their  gaze  held  steadily  enough 
upon  his  —  too  steadily  for  his  comfort.  He  addressed 
himself  to  his  cigar : 

"  I'm  not  quite  ready  to  say  I'm  willing  to  go  the 
limit,"  said  he.  "  We  don't  exactly  know  each  other 
sufficiently  well  as  yet,  do  we  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mildred. 

"  I've  been  making  inquiries,"  he  went  on ;  "  that  is, 
I  had  my  chief  secretary  make  them  —  and  he's  a  very 
thorough  man,  thanks  to  my  training.  He  reports 
everything  entirely  all  right.  I  admire  dignity  and 
reserve  in  a  woman,  and  you  have  been  very  particular. 
Were  you  engaged  to  Stanley  Baird  ?  " 

Mildred  flushed,  veiled  her  eyes  to  hide  their  resent 
ful  flash  at  this  impertinence.  She  debated  with  her 
self,  decided  that  any  rebuke  short  of  one  that  would 
anger  him  would  be  wasted  upon  him.  "  No,"  said  she. 

"  That  agrees  with  Harding's  report,"  said  the  gen 
eral.  "  It  was  a  mere  girlish  flirtation  —  very  digni 
fied  and  proper,"  he  hastened  to  add.  "  I  don't  mean 
to  suggest  that  you  were  at  all  flighty." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mildred  sweetly. 

"  Are  there  any  questions  you  would  like  to  ask  about 
me  ?  "  inquired  he. 

"  No,"  said  Mildred. 

"  As  I  understand  it  —  from  my  talk  with  Presbury 
—  you  are  willing  to  go  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mildred. 

77 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


The  general  smiled  genially.  "  I  think  I  may  say 
without  conceit  that  you  will  like  me  as  you  know  me 
better.  I  have  no  bad  habits  —  I've  too  much  regard 
for  my  health  to  over-indulge  or  run  loose.  In  my 
boyhood  days  I  may  have  put  in  rather  a  heavy  sowing 
of  wild  oats  " — the  general  laughed;  Mildred  conjured 
up  the  wintriest  and  faintest  of  echoing  smiles  — "  but 
that's  all  past,"  he  went  on,  "  and  there's  nothing  that 
could  rise  up  to  interfere  with  our  happiness.  You  are 
fond  of  children?" 

A  pause,  then  Mildred  said  quite  evenly,  "  Yes." 

"  Excellent,"  said  the  general.  "  I'll  expect  you  and 
your  mother  and  father  to  dinner  Sunday  night.  Is 
that  satisfactory  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mildred. 

A  longish  pause.  Then  the  general :  "  You  seem  to 
be  a  little  —  afraid  of  me.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  that 
people  are  always  that  way  with  me."  A  halt,  to  give 
her  the  opportunity  to  say  the  obvious  flattering  thing. 
Mildred  said  nothing,  gave  no  sign.  He  went  on :  "  It 
will  wear  away  as  we  know  each  other  better.  I  am  a 
simple,  plain  man  —  kind  and  generous  in  my  instincts. 
Of  course  I  am  dignified,  and  I  do  not  like  familiarity. 
But  I  do  not  mean  to  inspire  fear  and  awe." 

A  still  longer  pause.  "  Well,  everything  is  settled," 
said  the  general.  "  We  understand  each  other  clearly  ? 

—  not  an  engagement,  nothing  binding  on  either  side 

—  simply   a  —  a  —  an   option  without   forfeit."     And 
he  laughed  —  his  laugh  was  a  ghoulish  sound,  not  loud 
but  explosive  and  an  instant  check  upon  demonstration 
of  mirth  from  anyone  else. 

78 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  understand,"  said  Mildred  with  a  glance  toward 
the  door  through  which  Presbury  and  his  wife  had  dis 
appeared. 

"  Now,  we'll  j  oin  the  others,  and  I'll  show  you  the 
house  " —  again  the  laugh  — "  what  may  be  your  fu 
ture  home  —  one  of  them." 

The  four  were  soon  started  upon  what  was  for  three 
of  them  a  weariful  journey  despite  the  elevator  that 
spared  them  the  ascents  of  the  stairways.  The  house 
was  an  exaggerated  reproduction  of  all  the  establish 
ments  of  the  rich  who  confuse  expenditure  with  luxury 
and  comfort.  Bill  Siddall  had  bought  "  the  best  of 
everything  " ;  that  is,  the  things  into  which  the  purvey 
ors  of  costly  furnishings  have  put  the  most  excuses  for 
charging.  Of  taste,  of  comfort,  of  discrimination, 
there  were  few  traces  and  these  obviously  accidental. 
"  I  picked  out  the  men  acknowledged  to  be  the  best  in 
their  different  lines,"  said  the  general,  "  and  I  gave  them 
carte  blanche." 

"  I  see  that  at  a  glance,"  said  Presbury.  "  You've 
done  the  grand  thing  on  the  grandest  possible  scale." 

"  I've  looked  into  the  finest  of  the  famous  places  on 
the  other  side,"  said  the  general.  "  All  I  can  say  is, 
I've  had  no  regrets." 

"  I  should  say  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Presbury. 

With  an  affectation  of  modest  hesitation  —  to  show 
that  he  was  a  gentleman  with  a  gentleman's  fine  appre 
ciation  of  the  due  of  maiden  modesty  —  Siddall  paused 
at  the  outer  door  of  his  own  apartments.  But  at  one 
sentence  of  urging  from  Mrs.  Presbury  he  opened  the 
door  and  ushered  them  in.  And  soon  he  was  showing 

79 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


them  everything  —  his  Carrara  marble  bathroom  and 
bathing-pool,  his  bed  that  had  been  used  by  several 
French  kings,  his  dressing-room  with  its  appliances  of 
gold  and  platinum  and  precious  stones,  his  clothing. 
They  had  to  inspect  a  room  full  of  suits,  huge  chif 
foniers  crowded  with  shirts  and  ties  and  underclothes. 
He  exhibited  silk  dressing-robes  and  pajamas,  pointed 
out  the  marks  of  the  fashionable  London  and  Paris 
makers,  the  monograms,  the  linings  of  ermine  and  sable. 
"  I'm  very  particular  about  everything  that  touches 
me,"  explained  he.  "  It  seems  to  me  a  gentleman  can't 
be  too  particular."  With  a  meaning  glance  at  Mildred, 
"  And  I'd  feel  the  same  way  about  my  wife." 

"You  hear  that,  Mildred?"  said  Presbury,  with  a 
nasty  little  laugh.  He  had  been  relieving  the  tedium 
of  this  sight-seeing  tour  by  observing  —  and  from  time 
to  time  aggravating  —  Mildred's  sufferings. 

The  general  released  his  mirth-strangling  goat  laugh ; 
Mrs.  Presbury  echoed  it  with  a  gale  of  rather  wild  hys 
terics.  So  well  pleased  was  the  general  with  the  excursion 
and  so  far  did  he  feel  advanced  toward  intimacy  that  on 
the  way  down  the  majestic  marble  stairway  he  ventured 
to  give  Mildred's  arm  a  gentle,  playful  squeeze.  And  at 
the  parting  he  kissed  her  hand.  Presbury  had  changed 
his  mind  about  returning  to  the  country.  On  the  way 
to  the  hotel  he  girded  at  Mildred,  reviewing  all  that  the 
little  general  had  said  and  done,  and  sneering,  jeering 
at  it.  Mildred  made  not  a  single  retort  until  they 
were  upstairs  in  the  hotel.  At  the  door  to  her  room 
she  said  to  Presbury  —  said  it  in  a  quiet,  cold,  terrible 
way: 

80 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


66  If  you  really  want  me  to  go  through  with  this 
thing,  you  will  stop  insulting  him  and  me.  If  you  do  it 
again,  I'll  give  up  —  and  go  on  the  streets  before  I'll 
marry  him." 

Presbury  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on  to  the 
other  room.  But  he  did  not  begin  again  the  next  day, 
and  from  that  time  forth  avoided  reference  to  the  gen 
eral.  In  fact,  there  was  an  astonishing  change  in  his 
whole  demeanor.  He  ceased  to  bait  his  wife,  became 
polite,  even  affable.  If  he  had  conducted  himself  thus 
from  the  outset,  he  would  have  got  far  less  credit,  would 
have  made  far  less  progress  toward  winning  the  liking 
of  his  wife,  and  of  her  daughter,  than  he  did  in  a  brief 
two  weeks  of -change  from  petty  and  malignant  tyrant 
to  good-natured,  interestingly  talkative  old  gentleman. 
After  the  manner  of  human  nature,  Mildred  and  her 
mother,  in  their  relief,  in  their  pleasure  through  this 
amazing  sudden  and  wholly  unexpected  geniality,  not 
merely  forgave  but  forgot  all  they  had  suffered  at  his 
hands.  Mildred  was  not  without  a  suspicion  of  the 
truth  that  this  change,  inaugurated  in  his  own  good 
time,  was  fresh  evidence  of  his  contempt  for  both  of 
them  —  of  his  feeling  that  he  could  easily  make  repara 
tion  with  a  little  kindness  and  decency  and  put  himself 
in  the  way  of  getting  any  possible  benefits  from  the 
rich  alliance.  But.  though  she  practically  knew  what 
was  going  on  in  his  mind,  she  could  not  prevent  herself 
from  softening  toward  him. 

Now  followed  a  succession  of  dinners,  of  theater-  and 
opera-goings,  of  week-ends  at  the  general's  new  coun 
try  palace  in  the  fashionable  region  of  Long  Island. 

81 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


All  these  festivities  were  of  the  same  formal  and  tedious 
character.  At  all  the  general  was  the  central  sun  with 
the  others  dim  and  draggled  satellites,  hardly  more  im 
portant  than  the  outer  rim  of  satellite  servants.  He 
did  most  of  the  talking;  he  was  the  sole  topic  of  con 
versation  ;  for  when  he  was  not  talking  about  himself 
he  wished  to  be  hearing  about  himself.  If  Mildred  had 
not  been  seeing  more  and  more  plainly  that  other  and 
real  personality  of  his,  her  contempt  for  him  and  for 
herself  would  have  grown  beyond  control.  But,  with 
him  or  away  from  him,  at  every  instant  there  was  the 
sense  of  that  other  real  William  Siddall  —  a  shadowy 
menace  full  of  terror.  She  dreamed  of  it  —  was 
startled  from  sleep  by  visions  of  a  monstrous  and 
mighty  distortion  of  the  little  general's  grotesque  ex 
terior.  "  I  shall  marry  him  if  I  can,"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "But  —  can  I?"  And  she  feared  and  hoped 
that  she  could  not,  that  courage  would  fail  her,  or 
would  come  to  her  rescue,  whichever  it  was,  and  that 
she  would  refuse  him.  Aside  from  the  sense  of  her 
body  that  cannot  but  be  with  any  woman  who  is  beauti 
ful,  she  had  never  theretofore  been  especially  physical 
in  thought.  That  side  of  life  had  remained  vague,  as 
she  had  never  indulged  in  or  even  been  strongly  tempted 
with  the  things  that  rouse  it  from  its  virginal  sleep. 
But  now  she  thought  only  of  her  body,  because  that  it 
was,  and  that  alone,  that  had  drawn  this  prospective 
purchaser,  and  his  eyes  never  let  her  forget  it.  She 
fell  into  the  habit  of  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass  — 
at  her  face,  at  her  shoulders,  at  her  whole  person,  not 
in  vanity  but  in  a  kind  of  wonder  or  aversion.  And 

82 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


in  the  visions,  both  the  waking  and  the  sleeping,  she 
reached  the  climax  of  horror  when  the  monster  touched 
her  —  with  clammy,  creepy  fingers,  with  munching  lips, 
with  the  sharp  ends  of  the  mustache  or  imperial. 

Said  Mrs.  Presbury  to  her  husband,  "  I'm  afraid  the 
general  will  be  irritated  by  Mildred's  unresponsive- 
ness." 

"  Don't  worry,"  replied  Presbury.  "  He's  so  crazy 
about  himself  that  he  imagines  the  whole  world  is  in  the 
same  state." 

"  Isn't  it  strange  that  he  doesn't  give  her  presents  ? 
Never  anything  but  candy  and  flowers." 

"  And  he  never  will,"  said  Presbury. 

"  Not  until  they're  married,  I  suppose." 

Presbury  was  silent. 

"  I  can't  help  thinking  that  if  Milly  were  to  rouse 
herself  and  show  some  —  some  liking  —  or  at  least  in 
terest,  it'd  be  wiser." 

"  She's  taking  the  best  possible  course,"  said  Pres 
bury.  "  Unconsciously  to  both  of  them,  she's  leading 
him  on.  He  thinks  that's  the  way  a  lady  should  act  — 
restrained,  refined." 

Mildred's  attitude  was  simple  inertia.  The  most 
positive  effort  she  made  was  avoiding  saying  or  doing 
anything  to  displease  him  —  no  difficult  matter,  as  she 
was  silent  and  almost  lifeless  when  he  was  near.  With 
out  any  encouragement  from  her  he  gradually  got  a 
deep  respect  for  her  —  which  meant  that  he  became 
convinced  of  her  coldness  and  exclusiveness,  of  her  ab 
solute  trustworthiness.  Presbury  was  more  profoundly 
right  than  he  knew.  The  girl  pursued  the  only  course 

83 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


that  made  possible  the  success  she  longed  for,  yet 
dreaded  and  loathed.  For  at  the  outset  Siddall  had 
not  been  nearly  so  strongly  in  earnest  in  his  matri 
monial  project  as  he  had  professed  and  had  believed 
himself.  He  wished  to  marry,  wished  to  add  to  his  pos 
sessions  the  admirable  show-piece  and  exhibition  oppor 
tunity  afforded  by  the  right  sort  of  wife;  but  in  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  felt  that  such  a  woman  as  he 
dreamed  of  did  not  exist  in  all  the  foolish,  fickle,  and 
shallow  female  sex.  This  girl  —  so  cold,  so  proud, 
beautiful  yet  not  eager  to  display  her  charms  or  to  have 
them  praised  —  she  was  the  rare  bird  he  sought. 

In  a  month  he  asked  her  to  marry  him;  that  is,  he 
said :  "  My  dear,  I  find  that  I  am  ready  to  go  the 
limit  —  if  you  are."  And  she  assented.  He  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  kissed  her  cheek  —  and  was  de 
lighted  to  discover  that  the  alluring  embrace  made  no 
impression  upon  the  ice  of  her  "  purity  and  ladylike 
dignity."  Up  to  the  very  last  moment  of  the  formal 
courtship  he  held  himself  ready  to  withdraw  should  she 
reveal  to  his  watchfulness  the  slightest  sign  of  having 
any  "  unladylike  "  tendencies  or  feelings.  She  revealed 
no  such  sign,  but  remained  "  ladylike  " ;  and  certainly, 
so  the  general  reasoned,  a  woman  who  could  thus  resist 
him,  even  in  the  license  of  the  formal  engagement,  would 
resist  anybody. 

As  soon  as  the  engagement  was  formally  concluded, 
the  general  hurried  on  the  preparations  for  the  wed 
ding.  He  opened  accounts  at  half  a  dozen  shops  in 
New  York  —  dressmakers,  milliners,  dealers  in  fine  and 
fashionable  clothing  of  every  kind  —  and  gave  them 

84 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


orders  to  execute  whatever  commands  Miss  Gower  or 
her  mother  —  for  her  —  might  give  them.  When  he 
told  her  of  this  munificence  and  magnificence  and  paused 
for  the  outburst  of  gratitude,  he  listened  in  vain.  Mil 
dred  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  and  was  silent,  was 
seeking  the  courage  to  refuse. 

"  I  know  that  you  and  your  people  can't  afford  to  do 
the  thing  as  things  related  to  me  must  be  done,"  he 
went  on  to  say.  "  So  I  decided  to  just  start  in  a  little 
early  at  what  I've  got  to  do  anyhow.  Not  that  I  blame 
you  for  your  not  having  money,  my  dear.  On  the  con 
trary,  that's  one  of  your  merits  with  me.  I  wouldn't 
marry  a  woman  with  money.  It  puts  the  family  life  on 
a  wrong  basis." 

"  I  had  planned  a  quiet  wedding,"  said  Mildred. 
66  I'd  much  prefer  it." 

"  Now  you  can  be  frank  with  me,  my  dear,"  said  the 
general.  "  I  know  you  ladies  —  how  cheated  you  feel 
if  you  aren't  married  with  all  the  frills  and  fixings. 
So  that's  the  way  it  shall  be  done." 

"  Really,"  protested  Mildred,  "  I'm  absolutely  frank. 
I  wish  it  to  be  quite  quiet  —  in  our  drawing-room,  with 
no  guests." 

Siddall  smiled,  genial  and  tolerant.  "  Don't  argue 
with  me,  my  dear.  I  know  what  you  want,  and  I'll  see 
that  you  get  it.  Go  ahead  with  these  shop-people  I've 
put  at  your  disposal  —  and  go  as  far  as  you  like. 
There  isn't  anything  —  anything  —  in  the  way  of 
clothes  that  you  can't  have  —  that  you  mustn't  have. 
Mrs.  General  Siddall  is  going  to  be  the  best-dressed 
woman  in  the  world  —  as  she  is  the  prettiest.  I  haven't 

85 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


opened  an  account  for  you  with  Tiffany's  or  any  of 
those  people.  I'll  look  out  for  that  part  of  the  busi 
ness,  myself." 

"  I  don't  care  for  jewelry,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Naturally  not  for  the  kind  that's  been  within  your 
means  heretofore,"  replied  he ;  "  but  you'll  open  your 
eyes  when  you  see  my  jewelry  for  my  wife.  All  in 
good  time,  my  dear.  You  and  your  mother  must  start 
right  in  with  the  shopping;  and,  a  week  or  so  before 
the  wedding,  I'll  send  my  people  down  to  transform  the 
house.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  rather  think  that  the 
Siddall  wedding  will  cause  some  talk." 

He  was  not  wrong.  Through  his  confidential  secre 
tary,  Harding  the  thorough,  the  newspaper  press  was 
induced  to  take  an  interest  in  the  incredible  extrava 
gance  Siddall  was  perpetrating  in  arranging  for  a  fit 
ting  wedding  for  General  William  Siddall.  For  many 
days  before  the  ceremony  there  were  daily  columns 
about  him  and  his  romantic  career  and  his  romantic 
wooing  of  the  New  Jersey  girl  of  excellent  family  and 
social  position  but  of  comparatively  modest  means. 
The  shopkeepers  gave  interviews  on  the  trousseau.  The 
decorators  and  caterers  detailed  the  splendors  and  the 
costliness  of  the  preparations  of  which  they  had  charge. 
From  morning  until  dark  a  crowd  hung  round  the  house 
at  Hanging  Rock,  and  on  the  wedding  day  the  streets 
leading  to  it  were  blocked  —  chiefly  with  people  come 
from  a  distance,  many  of  them  from  New  York. 

At  the  outset  all  this  noise  was  deeply  distasteful  to 
Mildred,  but  after  a  few  days  she  recovered  her  normal 
point  of  view,  forgot  the  kind  of  man  she  was  marry- 

86 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ing  in  the  excitement  and  exultation  over  her  sudden 
splendor  and  fame.  So  strongly  did  the  delusion  pres 
ently  become,  that  she  was  looking  at  the  little  general 
with  anything  but  unfavorable  eyes.  He  seemed  to  her 
a  quaint,  fascinating,  benevolent  necromancer,  having 
miraculous  powers  which  he  was  exercising  in  her  behalf. 
She  even  reproached  herself  with  ingratitude  in  not 
being  wildly  in  love  with  him.  Would  not  any  other 
girl,  in  her  place,  have  fallen  over  ears  in  love  with 
this  marvelous  man? 

However,  while  she  could  not  quite  convince  herself 
that  she  loved,  she  became  convinced  without  effort  that 
she  was  happy,  that  she  was  going  to  be  still  happier. 
The  excitement  wrought  her  into  a  state  of  exaltation 
and  swept  her  through  the  wedding  ceremony  and  the 
going  away  as  radiant  a  bride  as  a  man  would  care  to 
have. 

There  is  much  to  be  said  against  the  noisy,  showy 
wedding.  Certainly  love  has  rarely  been  known  to  de 
grade  himself  to  the  point  of  attending  any  such.  But 
there  is  something  to  be  said  for  that  sort  of  married 
start  —  for  instance,  where  love  is  neither  invited  nor 
desired,  an  effort  must  be  made  to  cover  the  painful 
vacancy  his  absence  always  causes. 

The  little  general's  insistence  on  a  "  real  wedding  " 
was  most  happy  for  him.  It  probably  got  him  his 
bride. 


87 


in 


THE  intoxication  of  that  wedding  held  on  long  enough 
and  strongly  enough  to  soften  and  blunt  the  disillusion- 
ments  of  the  first  few  days  of  the  honeymoon.  In  the 
prospect  that  period  had  seemed,  even  to  Mildred's 
rather  unsophisticated  imagination,  appalling  beyond 
her  power  to  endure.  In  the  fact  —  thanks  in  large 
part  to  that  intoxication  —  it  was  certainly  not  unen 
durable.  A  human  being,  even  an  innocent  young  girl, 
can  usually  bear  up  under  any  experience  to  which  a 
human  being  can  be  subjected.  The  general  in  pa 
jamas  —  of  the  finest  silk  and  of  pigeon's-egg  blue 
with  a  vast  gorgeous  monogram  on  the  pocket  —  was 
more  grotesque,  rather  than  more  repellent,  than  the 
general  in  morning  or  evening  attire.  Also  he  —  that 
is,  his  expert  staff  of  providers  of  luxury  —  had  ar 
ranged  for  the  bride  a  series  of  the  most  ravishing  sen 
sations  in  whisking  her,  like  the  heroine  of  an  Arabian 
Night's  tale,  from  straitened  circumstances  to  the  very 
paradise  of  luxury. 

The  general's  ideas  on  the  subject  of  woman  were  old- 
fashioned,  of  the  hard-shell  variety.  Woman  was  made 
for  luxury,  and  luxury  was  made  for  woman.  His 
woman  must  be  the  most  divinely  easeful  of  the  luxuri 
ous.  At  all  times  she  must  be  fit  and  ready  for  any 
and  every  sybaritic  idea  that  might  enter  her  husband's 

88 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


head  —  and  other  purpose  she  had  none.  When  she 
was  not  directly  engaged  in  ministering  to  his  joy  she 
must  be  busy  preparing  herself  for  his  next  call  upon 
her.  A  woman  was  a  luxury,  was  the  luxury  of  lux 
uries,  must  have  and  must  use  to  their  uttermost  all 
capacities  for  gratifying  his  senses  and  his  vanity. 
Alone  with  him,  she  must  make  him  constantly  feel  how 
rich  and  rare  and  expensive  a  prize  he  had  captured. 
When  others  were  about,  she  must  be  constantly  mak 
ing  them  envy  and  admire  him  for  having  exclusive 
rights  in  such  wonderful  preserves.  All  this  with  an 
inflexible  devotion  to  the  loftiest  ideals  of -chastity. 

But  the  first  realizations  of  her  husband's  notions  as 
to  women  were  altogether  pleasant.  As  she  entered  the 
automobile  in  which  they  went  to  the  private  car  in  the 
special  train  that  took  them  to  New  York  and  the 
steamer  —  as  she  entered  that  new  and  prodigally  lux 
urious  automobile,  she  had  a  first,  keen  sense  of  her 
changed  position.  Then  there  was  the  superb  private 
car  —  her  car,  since  she  was  his  wife  —  and  there  was 
the  beautiful  suite  in  the  magnificent  steamer.  And  at 
every  instant  menials  thrusting  attentions  upon  her,  ad 
dressing  her  as  if  she  were  a  queen,  revealing  in  their 
nervous  tones  and  anxious  eyes  their  eagerness  to  please, 
their  fear  of  displeasing.  And  on  the  steamer,  from 
New  York  to  Cherbourg,  she  was  never  permitted  to 
lose  sight  of  the  material  splendors  that  were  now  hers. 
All  the  servants,  all  the  passengers,  reminded  her  by 
their  looks,  their  tones.  At  Paris,  in  the  hotel,  in  the 
restaurants,  in  the  shops  —  especially  in  the  shops  — 
those  snobbish  instincts  that  are  latent  in  the  sanest 

89 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  the  wisest  of  us  were  fed  and  fattened  and  pam 
pered  until  her  head  was  quite  turned.  And  the  gen 
eral  began  to  buy  jewels  for  her.  Such  jewels  — 
ropes  of  diamonds  and  pearls  and  emeralds,  rings  such 
as  she  had  never  dreamed  existed !  Those  shopping  ex 
cursions  of  theirs  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  would  make  such 
a  tale  as  your  ordinary  simple  citizen,  ignorant  of  the 
world's  resources  in  luxury  and  therefore  incredulous 
about  them,  would  read  with  a  laugh  at  the  extrava 
gance  of  the  teller. 

Before  the  intoxication  of  the  wedding  had  worn 
away  it  was  reenforced  by  the  intoxication  of  the  honey 
moon  —  not  an  intoxication  of  love's  providing,  but 
one  exceeding  potent  in  its  influence  upon  our  weak 
human  brains  and  hearts,  one  from  which  the  strongest 
of  us,  instead  of  sneering  at  poor  Mildred,  would  better 
be  praying  to  be  delivered. 

At  her  marriage  she  had  a  few  hundred  dollars  left 
of  her  patrimony  —  three  hundred  and  fifty  and  odd, 
to  be  more  exact.  She  spent  a  little  money  of  her  own 
here  and  there  —  in  tips,  in  buying  presents  for  her 
mother,  in  picking  up  trifles  for  her  own  toilet.  The 
day  came  when  she  looked  in  her  purse  and  found  two 
one-franc  pieces,  a  fifty-franc  note,  and  a  few  coppers. 
And  suddenly  she  sat  back  and  stared,  her  mouth  open 
like  her  almost  empty  gold  bag,  which  the  general  had 
bought  her  on  their  first  day  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
About  ten  dollars  in  all  the  world,  and  the  general  had 
forgotten  to  speak  —  or  to  make  any  arrangement,  at 
least  any  arrangement  of  which  she  was  aware  —  about 
a  further  supply  of  money. 

90 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


They  had  been  married  nearly  a  month.  He  knew 
that  she  was  poor.  Why  hadn't  he  said  something  or, 
better  still,  done  something?  Doubtless  he  had  simply 
forgotten.  But  since  he  had  forgotten  for  a  month, 
might  he  not  continue  to  forget?  True,  he  had  him 
self  been  poor  at  one  time  in  his  life,  very  poor,  and 
that  for  a  long  time.  But  it  had  been  so  many  years 
ago  that  he  had  probably  lost  all  sense  of  the  meaning 
of  poverty.  She  frowned  at  this  evidence  of  his  lack 
of  the  finer  sensibilities  —  by  no  means  the  first  time 
that  lack  had  been  disagreeably  thrust  upon  her.  Soon 
she  would  be  without  money  —  and  she  must  have  money 
—  not  much,  as  all  the  serious  expenses  were  looked 
after  by  the  general,  but  still  a  little  money.  How 
could  she  get  it?  How  could  she  remind  him  of  his 
neglect  without  seeming  to  be  indelicate?  It  was  a  dif 
ficult  problem.  She  worked  at  it  more  and  more  con 
tinuously,  and  irritably,  and  nervously,  as  the  days 
went  by  and  her  fifty-two  francs  dwindled  to  five. 

She  lay  awake,  planning  long  and  elaborate  conver 
sations  that  would  imperceptibly  lead  him  up  to  where 
he  must  see  what  she  needed  without  seeing  that  he  had 
been  led.  She  carried  out  these  ingenious  conversa 
tions.  She  led  him  along,  he  docilely  and  unsuspect 
ingly  following.  She  brought  him  up  to  where  it 
seemed  to  her  impossible  for  any  human  being  endowed 
with  the  ordinary  faculties  to  fail  to  see  what  was  so 
plainly  in  view.  All  in  vain.  General  William  Siddall 
gazed  placidly  —  and  saw  nothing. 

Several  days  of  these  failures,  and  with  her  funds 
reduced  to  a  fifty-centime  piece  and  a  two-sous  copper 

91 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she  made  a  frontal  attack.  When  they  went  forth  for 
tne  day's  shopping  she  left  her  gold  bag  behind.  After 
an  hour  or  so  she  said: 

"  I've  got  to  go  to  the  Galleries  Lafayette  for  some 
little  things.  I  shan't  ask  you  to  sacrifice  yourself.  I 
know  you  hate  those  stuffy,  smelly  big  shops." 

"  Very  well,"  said  he.  "  I'll  use  the  time  in  a  call 
on  my  bankers." 

As  they  were  about  to  separate,  she  taking  the  motor 
and  he  walking,  she  made  a  face  of  charming  dismay 
and  said :  "  How  provoking !  I've  left  my  bag  at  the 
hotel." 

Instead  of  the  expected  prompt  offer  of  money  he 
said,  "  It'll  only  take  you  a  minute  or  so  to  drive  there." 

"  But  it's  out  of  the  way,"  she  replied.  "  I'll  need 
only  a  hundred  francs  or  so." 

Said  he:  "  I've  an  account  at  the  Bon  Marche.  Go 
there  and  have  the  things  charged.  It's  much  the  best 
big  shop  in  Paris." 

"  Very  well,"  was  all  she  could  trust  herself  to  say. 
She  concealed  her  anger  beneath  a  careless  smile  and 
drove  away.  How  dense  he  was!  Could  anything  be 
more  exasperating  —  or  more  disagreeable  ?  What 
should  she  do  ?  The  situation  was  intolerable ;  yet  how 
could  it  be  ended,  except  by  a  humiliating  direct  re 
quest  for  money?  She  wondered  how  young  wives  ha 
bitually  dealt  with  this  problem,  when  they  happened  to 
marry  husbands  so  negligent,  not  to  say  underbred,  as 
to  cause  them  the  awkwardness  and  the  shame.  There 
followed  several  days  during  which  the  money  idea  was 
an  obsession,  nagging  and  grinning  at  her  every  in- 

92 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


stant.  The  sight  of  money  gave  her  a  peculiar  itching 
sensation.  When  the  little  general  paid  for  anything 
—  always  drawing  out  a  great  sheaf  of  bank  notes  in 
doing  it  —  she  flushed  hot  and  cold,  her  glance  fell 
guiltily  and  sought  the  money  furtively.  At  last  her 
desperation  gave  birth  to  an  inspiration. 

About  her  and  the  general,  or,  rather,  about  the 
general,  revolved  the  usual  rich  man's  small  army  of 
satellites  of  various  degrees  —  secretaries,  butlers, 
footmen,  valets,  other  servants  male  and  female,  some  of 
them  supposed  to  be  devoted  entirely  to  her  service,  but 
all  in  fact  looking  ever  to  the  little  general.  The  mem 
bers  of  this  company,  regardless  of  differences  of  rank 
and  pay,  were  banded  together  in  a  sort  of  democratic 
fellowship,  talking  freely  with  one  another,  on  terms 
of  perfect  equality.  She  herself  had,  curiously,  gotten 
on  excellent  terms  with  this  motley  fraternity  and  found 
no  small  relief  from  the  strain  of  the  general's  formal 
dignity  in  talking  with  them  with  a  freedom  and  ease 
she  had  never  before  felt  in  the  society  of  underlings. 
The  most  conspicuous  and  most  agreeable  figure  in  this 
company  was  Harding,  the  general's  factotum.  Why 
not  lay  the  case  before  Harding?  He  was  notably 
sensible,  and  sympathetic  —  and  discreet. 

The  following  day  she  did  so.  Said  she,  blushing 
furiously :  "  Mr.  Harding,  I  find  myself  in  a  very 
embarrassing  position.  I  wonder  if  you  can  help  me?  " 

Harding,  a  young  man  and  of  one  of  the  best  blond 
types,  said:  "  No  doubt  I  can  —  and  I'll  be  glad  to." 

"  The  fact  is  " —  Her  voice  was  trembling  with  nerv 
ousness.  She  opened  the  gold  bag,  took  out  the  little 

93 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


silver  pieces  and  the  big  copper  piece,  extended  her  pink 
palm  with  them  upon  it  — "  there's  all  I've  got  left  of 
the  money  I  brought  with  me." 

Harding  gazed  at  the  exhibit  tranquilly.  He  was 
chiefly  remarkable  for  his  perfect  self-possession.  Said 
he:  "  Do  you  wish  me  to  cash  a  check  for  you?  " 

The  stupidity  of  men!  Tears  of  vexation  gathered 
in  her  eyes.  When  she  could  speak  she  faltered: 

"  No." 

He  was  looking  at  her  now  —  a  grave,  kind  glance. 

She  somehow  felt  encouraged  and  heartened.  She 
went  on :  "I  was-  hoping  —  that  —  that  the  gen  — 
that  my  husband  had  said  something  to  you  and  that 
you  perhaps  had  not  thought  to  say  anything  to  me." 

Their  glances  met,  his  movingly  sympathetic  and  un 
derstanding,  hers  piteously  forlorn  —  the  look  of  a 
lovely  girl,  stranded  and  friendless  in  a  far  strange 
land.  Presently  he  said  gently: 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  to  say  something  to  you  —  if  you 
should  speak  to  me  about  this  matter."  His  tone 
caused  in  her  heart  a  horrible  stillness  of  suspense.  He 
went  on :  "  He  said  —  I  give  you  his  exact  words : 
*  If  my  wife  should  ask  you  for  money,  tell  her  my 
ideas  on  the  subject.' ' 

A  pause.  She  started  up,  crimson,  her  glance  dart 
ing  nervously  this  way  and  that  to  avoid  his.  "  Never 
mind.  Really,  it's  of  no  importance.  Thank  you  — 
I'll  get  on  very  well  —  I'm  sorry  to  have  troubled 
you  — " 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Siddall,"  he  interposed,  "  but  I 
think  you'd  best  let  me  finish." 

94 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


She  started  to  protest,  she  tried  to  move  toward  the 
door.  Her  strength  failed  her,  she  sat  down,  waited, 
nervously  clasping  and  unclasping  the  costly,  jewel- 
embroidered  bag. 

"  He  has  explained  to  me,  many  times,"  continued 
Harding,  "  that  he  believes  women  do  not  understand 
the  value  of  money  and  ought  not  to  be  trusted  with  it. 
He  proposes  to  provide  everything  for  you,  every  com 
fort  and  luxury  —  I  am  using  his  own  language,  Mrs. 
Siddall  —  and  he  has  open  accounts  at  the  principal 
shops  in  every  city  where  you  will  go  —  New  York, 
Washington,  Chicago,  Denver,  Paris,  London,  Rome. 
He  says  you  are  at  liberty  to  get  practically  anything 
you  please  at  these  shops,  and  he  will  pay  the  bills. 
He  thus  entirely  spares  you  the  necessity  of  ever  spend 
ing  any  money.  Should  you  see  anything  you  wish  at 
some  shop  where  he  has  no  account,  you  can  have  it  sent 
collect,  and  I  or  my  assistant,  Mr.  Drawl,  will  settle 
for  it.  All  he  asks  is  that  you  use  discretion  in  this 
freedom.  He  says  it  would  be  extremely  painful  to 
him  to  have  to  withdraw  it." 

Harding  had  pronounced  this  long  speech  in  a  dry 
monotonous  voice,  like  one  reading  mechanically  from 
a  dull  book.  As  Mildred  listened,  her  thoughts  began 
to  whirl  about  the  central  idea  until  she  fell  into  a  kind 
of  stupor.  When  he  finished  she  was  staring  vacantly 
at  the  bag  in  her  lap  —  the  bag  she  was  holding  open 
wide. 

Harding  continued :  "  He  also  instructed  me  to  say 
something  about  his  former  —  his  experiences.  The 
first  Mrs.  Siddall  he  married  when  he  was  very  young 

95 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  poor.  As  he  grew  rich,  she  became  madly  extrava 
gant.  And  as  they  had  started  on  a  basis  on  which  she 
had  free  access  to  his  money  he  could  not  check  her. 
The  result,  finally,  was  a  succession  of  bitter  quarrels, 
and  they  were  about  to  divorce  when  she  died.  He 
made  the  second  Mrs.  Siddall  an  allowance,  a  liberal  al 
lowance.  Her  follies  compelled  him  to  withdraw  it. 
She  resorted  to  underhanded  means  to  get  money  from 
him  without  his  knowing  it.  He  detected  the  fraud. 
After  a  series  of  disagreeable  incidents  she  committed 
the  indiscretion  which  caused  him  to  divorce  her.  He 
says  that  these  experiences  have  convinced  him  that  — " 

"  The  second  Mrs.  Siddall,"  interrupted  Mildred,  "  is 
she  still  alive?" 

Harding  hesitated.     "Yes,"  he  said  reluctantly. 

"Is  she  —  poor?"  asked  Mildred. 

"  I  should  prefer  not  to  — " 

"  Did  the  general  forbid  you  to  tell  me?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  instructed  me  —  But  I'd 
rather  not  talk  about  it,  Mrs.  Siddall." 

"  Is  she  poor?  "  repeated  Mildred. 

"Yes." 

"  What  became  of  her?  " 

A  long  pause.  Then  Harding  said :  "  She  was  a 
poor  girl  when  the  general  married  her.  After  the  di 
vorce  she  lived  for  a  while  with  the  man.  But  he  had 
nothing.  They  separated.  She  tried  various  kinds  of 
work  —  and  other  things.  Since  she  lost  her  looks  — 
She  writes  from  time  to  time,  asking  for  money." 

"  Which  she  never  gets  ?  "  said  Mildred. 

"  Which  she  never  gets,"  said  Harding.  "  Lately 

96 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she  was  cashier  or  head  waitress  in  a  cheap  restaurant 
in  St.  Louis." 

After  a  long  silence  Mildred  said:  "  I  understand. 
I  understand."  She  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  shall  un 
derstand  better  as  time  goes  on,  but  I  understand  fairly 
well  now." 

"  I  need  not  tell  you,  Mrs.  Siddall,"  said  Harding  in 
his  gentle,  tranquil  way,  "  that  the  general  is  the  kind 
est  and  most  generous  of  men,  but  he  has  his  own  meth 
ods  —  as  who  has  not  ?  " 

Mildred  had  forgotten  that  he  was  there  —  not  a  dif 
ficult  matter,  when  he  had  in  its  perfection  the  secre 
tarial  manner  of  complete  self-effacement.  Said  she 
reflectively,  like  one  puzzling  out  a  difficult  problem: 

"  He  buys  a  woman,  as  he  buys  a  dog  or  a  horse. 
He  does  not  give  his  dog,  his  horse,  pocket-money. 
Why  should  he  give  his  woman  pocket-money  ?  " 

"  Will  it  help  matters,  Mrs.  Siddall,  to  go  to  the  other 
extreme  and  do  him  a  grave  injustice?  " 

She  did  not  hear.  At  the  picture  presented  to  her 
mind  by  her  own  thoughts  she  gave  a  short  satirical 
laugh.  "  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  have  understood 
from  the  outset,"  said  she.  "  Why,  I've  often  heard  of 
this  very  thing." 

"  It  is  more  and  more  the  custom  among  men  of  large 
property,  I  believe,"  said  Harding.  "  Perhaps,  Mrs. 
Siddall,  you  would  not  blame  them  if  you  were  in  their 
position.  The  rich  men  who  are  careless  —  they  ruin 
everybody  about  them,  I  assure  you.  I've  seen  it  again 
and  again." 

But  the  young  wife  was  absorbed  in  her  own 

97 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


thoughts.  Harding,  feeling  her  mood,  did  not  inter 
rupt.  After  a  while  she  said: 

"  I  must  ask  you  some  questions.  These  jewels  the 
general  has  been  buying — " 

Harding  made  a  movement  of  embarrassment  and 
protest.  She  smiled  ironically  and  went  on: 

"  One  moment,  please.  Every  time  I  wish  to  wear 
any  of  them  I  have  to  go  to  him  to  get  them.  He  asks 
me  to  return  them  when  I  am  undressing.  He  says  it 
is  safer  to  keep  everything  in  his  strong  box.  I  have 
been  assuming  that  that  was  the  only  reason.  I  begin 
to  suspect —  Am  I  right,  Mr.  Harding?" 

"Really  I  can't  say,  Mrs.  Siddall,"  said  Harding. 
"  These  are  not  matters  to  discuss  with  me,  if  you  will 
permit  me  to  say  so." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  are,"  replied  she  laughingly. 
"  Aren't  we  all  in  the  same  boat?  —  all  employes  of 
the  general?  " 

Harding  made  no  reply. 

Mildred  was  beside  herself  with  a  kind  of  rage  that, 
because  outlet  was  necessary  and  because  raving  against 
the  little  general  would  be  absolutely  futile,  found  out 
let  in  self -mockery  and  reckless  sarcasm. 

"  I  understand  about  the  jewels,  too,"  she  went  on. 
"  They  are  not  mine.  Nothing  is  mine.  Everything, 
including  myself,  belongs  to  him.  If  I  give  satisfaction 
in  the  position  for  which  I've  been  hired  for  my  board 
and  clothes,  I  may  continue  to  eat  the  general's  food 
and  sleep  in  the  general's  house  and  wear  the  general's 
jewels  and  dresses  and  ride  in  the  general's  traps  and  be 
waited  on  by  the  general's  servants.  If  I  don't  like  my 

98 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


place  or  he  doesn't  like  my  way  of  filling  it  " —  she 
laughed  merrily,  mockingly  — "  out  I  go  —  into  the 
streets  —  after  the  second  Mrs.  Siddall.  And  the  gen 
eral  will  hire  a  new — "  She  paused,  cast  about  for  a 
word  in  vain,  appealed  to  the  secretary,  "  What  would 
you  call  it,  Mr.  Harding?  " 

Harding  rose,  looking  at  her  with  a  very  soothing 
tranquillity.  "  If  I  were  you,  Mrs.  Siddall,"  said  he, 
"  I  should  get  into  the  auto  and  go  for  a  long  drive  — 
out  to  the  Bois  —  out  to  Versailles  —  a  long,  long 
drive.  I  should  be  gone  four  or  five  hours  at  least,  and 
I  should  look  at  the  thing  from  all  sides.  Especially, 
I'd  look  at  it  from  his  standpoint." 

Mildred,  somewhat  quieter,  but  still  mocking,  said: 
"  If  I  should  decide  to  quit,  would  my  expenses  be  paid 
back  to  where  I  was  engaged?  I  fancy  not." 

Harding  looked  grave.  "  If  you  had  had  money 
enough  to  pay  your  own  expenses  about,  would  you 
have  married  him  ?  "  said  he.  "  Isn't  he  paying  —  pay 
ing  liberally,  Mrs.  Siddall  —  for  all  he  gets?" 

Mildred,  stung,  drew  herself  up  haughtily,  gave  him 
a  look  that  reminded  him  who  she  was  and  who  he  was. 
But  Harding  was  not  impressed. 

"  You  said  a  moment  ago  —  truly  —  that  we  are  all 
in  the  same  boat,"  observed  he.  "  I  put  those  ques 
tions  to  you  because  I  honestly  wish  to  help  you  —  be 
cause  I  wish  you  not  to  act  foolishly,  hastily." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  Mildred  coldly. 
And  with  a  slight  nod  she  went,  angry  and  ashamed 
that  she  had  so  unaccountably  opened  up  her  secret 
soul,  bared  its  ugly  wounds,  before  a  man  she  knew  so 

99 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


slightly,  a  man  in  a  position  but  one  remove  from 
menial.  However,  she  took  his  advice  —  not  as  to  try 
ing  to  view  the  matter  from  all  sides,  for  she  was  con 
vinced  that  there  was  only  the  one  side,  but  as  to  calm 
ing  herself  by  a  long  drive  alone  in  the  woods  and 
along  quiet  roads.  When  she  returned  she  was  under 
control  once  more. 

She  found  the  general  impatiently  awaiting  her. 
Many  packages  had  come  —  from  the  jewelers,  from 
the  furriers,  from  a  shop  whose  specialty  was  the  thin 
nest  and  most  delicate  of  hand-made  underwear.  The 
general  loved  to  open  and  inspect  finery  for  her  — 
loved  it  more  than  he  loved  inspecting  finery  for  him 
self,  because  feminine  finery  was  far  more  attractive 
than  masculine.  To  whet  his  pleasure  to  the  keenest 
she  must  be  there  to  admire  with  him,  to  try  on,  to  ex 
hibit.  As  she  entered  the  salon  where  the  little  man 
was  fussing  about  among  the  packages,  their  glances 
met.  She  saw  that  Harding  had  told  him  —  at  least  in 
discreet  outline  —  of  their  conversation.  She  also  saw 
that  if  she  reopened  the  subject  she  would  find  herself 
straightway  whirled  out  upon  a  stormy  sea  of  danger 
that  might  easily  overwhelm  her  flimsy  boat.  She  si 
lently  and  sullenly  dropped  into  her  place ;  she  minis 
tered  to  the  general's  pleasure  in  packages  of  finery. 
But  she  did  not  exclaim,  or  admire,  or  respond  in  any 
way.  The  honeymoon  was  over.  Her  dream  of  wife- 
hood  was  dissipated. 

She  understood  now  the  look  she  so  often  had  seen 
on  the  faces  of  rich  men's  poor  wives  driving  in  state 
in  Fifth  Avenue.  That  night,  as  she  inspected  herself 

100 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


in  the  glass  while  the  general's  maid  for  her  brushed 
her  long  thick  hair,  she  saw  the  beginnings  of  that  look 
in  her  own  face.  "  I  don't  know  just  what  I  am,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  But  I  do  know  what  I  am  not.  I  am 
not  a  wife." 

She  sent  away  the  maid,  and  sat  there  in  the  dressing- 
room  before  the  mirror,  waiting,  her  glance  traveling 
about  and  noting  the  profuse  and  prodigal  luxury.  In 
the  corner  stood  a  circular  rack  loaded  with  dressing- 
gowns  —  more  than  a  score  of  exquisite  combinations 
of  silk  and  lace  or  silk  and  chiffon.  It  so  happened 
that  there  was  nowhere  in  sight  a  single  article  of  her 
apparel  or  for  her  toilet  that  was  not  bought  with 
the  general's  money.  No,  there  were  some  hairpins 
that  she  had  paid  for  herself,  and  a  comb  with  widely 
separated  teeth  that  she  had  chanced  to  see  in  a  win 
dow  when  she  was  alone  one  day.  Anything  else? 
Yes,  a  two-franc  box  of  pins.  And  that  was  all. 
Everything  else  belonged  to  the  general.  In  the  closets, 
in  the  trunks  —  all  the  general's,  part  of  the  trousseau 
he  had  paid  for.  Not  an  undergarment;  not  an  outer 
garment ;  not  a  hat  or  a  pair  of  shoes,  not  a  wrap,  not 
a  pair  of  gloves.  All,  the  general's. 

He  was  in  the  door  of  the  dressing-room  —  the  small 
wiry  figure  in  rose-silk  pajamas.  The  mustache  and 
imperial  were  carefully  waxed  as  always,  day  and  night. 
On  the  little  feet  were  high-heeled  slippers.  On  the 
head  was  a  rose-silk  Neapolitan  nightcap  with  gay  tassel. 
The  nightcap  hid  the  bald  spot  from  which  the  lofty 
toupee  had  been  removed.  A  grotesque  little  figure, 
but  not  grotesque  to  her.  Through  the  mask  of  the 

101 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


vain,  boastful  little  face  she  saw  the  general  watching 
her,  as  she  had  seen  him  that  afternoon  when  she  came 
in  —  the  mysterious  and  terrible  personality  that  had 
made  the  vast  fortune,  that  had  ridden  ruthlessly  over 
friend  and  foe,  over  man  and  woman  and  child  —  to  the 
goal  of  its  desires. 

"  It's  late,  my  dear/'  said  the  little  man.  "  Come 
to  bed." 

She  rose  to  obey  —  she  in  the  general's  purchases  of 
filmy  nightgown  under  a  pale-pink  silk  dressing-gown. 

He  smiled  with  that  curious  noiseless  mumbling  and 
smacking  of  the  thin  lips.  She  sat  down  again. 

"  Don't  keep  me  waiting.  It's  chilly,"  he  said,  ad 
vancing  toward  her. 

"  I  shall  sleep  in  here  to-night  —  on  the  couch,"  said 
she.  She  was  trembling  with  fright  at  her  own  audac 
ity.  She  could  see  a  fifty-centime  piece  and  a  copper 
dancing  before  her  eyes.  She  felt  horribly  alone  and 
weak,  but  she  had  no  desire  to  retract  the  words  with 
which  she  had  thrown  down  the  gauntlet. 

The  little  general  halted.  The  mask  dropped;  the 
man,  the  monster,  looked  at  her.  "  What's  the  mat 
ter?  "  said  he  in  an  ominously  quiet  voice. 

"  Mr.  Harding  delivered  your  message  to-day,"  said 
she,  and  her  steady  voice  astonished  her.  "  So  I  am 
going  back  home." 

He  waited,  looking  steadily  at  her. 

"  After  he  told  me  and  I  thought  about  it,  I  decided 
to  submit,  but  just  now  I  saw  that  I  couldn't.  I  don't 
know  what  possesses  me.  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going 
to  do,  or  how  I'm  going  to  do  it.  But  it's  all  over 

102 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


between  us."  She  said  this  rapidly,  fluently,  in  a  de 
cisive  way,  quite  foreign  to  her  character  as  she  had 
thought  it. 

"  You  are  coming  to  bed,  where  you  belong,"  said 
he  quietly. 

"  No,"  replied  she,  pressing  herself  against  her  chair 
as  if  force  were  being  used  to  drag  her  from  it.  She 
cast  about  for  something  that  would  make  yielding  im 
possible.  "  You  are  —  repulsive  to  me." 

He  looked  at  her  without  change  of  countenance. 
Said  he :  "  Come  to  bed.  I  ask  you  for  the  last  time." 

There  was  no  anger  in  his  voice,  no  menace  either 
open  or  covert ;  simply  finality  —  the  last  word  of  the 
man  who  had  made  himself  feared  and  secure  in  the 
mining-camps  where  the  equation  of  personal  courage  is 
straightway  applied  to  every  situation.  Mildred  shiv 
ered.  She  longed  to  yield,  to  stammer  out  some  excuse 
and  obey  him.  But  she  could  not ;  nor  was  she  able 
to  rise  from  her  chair.  She  saw  in  his  hard  eyes  a  look 
of  astonishment,  of  curiosity  as  to  this  unaccountable 
defiance  in  one  who  had  seemed  docile,  who  had  ap 
parently  no  alternative  but  obedience.  He  was  not  so 
astonished  at  her  as  she  was  at  herself.  "  What  is  to 
become  of  me?  "  her  terror-stricken  soul  was  crying. 
"  I  must  do  as  he  says  —  I  must  —  yet  I  cannot ! " 
And  she  looked  at  him  and  sat  motionless. 

He  turned  away,  moved  slowly  toward  the  door, 
halted  at  the  threshold  to  give  her  time,  was  gone.  A 
fit  of  trembling  seized  her;  she  leaned  forward  and 
rested  her  arms  upon  the  dressing-table  or  she  would 
have  fallen  from  the  chair  to  the  floor.  Yet,  even  as 

103 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


her  fear  made  her  sick  and  weak,  she  knew  that  she 
would  not  yield. 

The  cold  drove  her  to  the  couch,  to  lie  under  half  a 
dozen  of  the  dressing-gowns  and  presently  to  fall  into 
a  sleep  of  exhaustion.  When  she  awoke  after  what  she 
thought  was  a  few  minutes  of  unconsciousness,  the 
clamor  of  traffic  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  startled  her.  She 
started  up,  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  chimneypiece. 
It  was  ten  minutes  past  nine!  When,  by  all  the  rules 
governing  the  action  of  the  nerves,  she  ought  to  have 
passed  a  wakeful  night  she  had  overslept  more  than  an 
hour.  Indeed,  she  had  had  the  first  sound  and  pro 
longed  sleep  that  had  come  to  her  since  the  honeymoon 
began;  for  until  then  she  had  slept  alone  all  her  life 
and  the  new  order  had  almost  given  her  chronic  insom 
nia.  She  rang  for  her  maid  and  began  to  dress.  The 
maid  did  not  come.  She  rang  again  and  again;  ap 
parently  the  bell  was  broken.  She  finished  dressing  and 
went  out  into  the  huge,  grandly  and  gaudily  furnished 
salon.  Harding  was  at  a  carved  old-gold  and  lacquer 
desk,  writing.  As  she  entered  he  rose  and  bowed. 

"  Won't  you  please  call  one  of  the  servants  ?  "  said 
she.  "  I  want  my  coffee.  I  guess  the  bell  in  my  room 
is  broken.  My  maid  doesn't  answer." 

"  No,  the  bell  is  not  broken,"  said  Harding. 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"  The  general  has  issued  an  order  that  nothing  is 
to  be  done  in  this  apartment,  and  nothing  served,  unless 
he  personally  authorizes  it." 

Mildred  paled,  drew  herself  up  in  what  seemed  a  ges 
ture  of  haughtiness  but  was  an  effort  to  muster  her 

104 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


strength.  To  save  herself  from  the  humiliation  of  a 
breakdown  before  him,  she  hastily  retreated  by  the  way 
she  had  come.  After  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she 
reappeared  in  the  salon;  she  was  now  dressed  for  the 
street.  Harding  looked  up  from  his  writing,  rose  and 
bowed  gravely.  Said  she: 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  walk.  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour 
or  so." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Harding,  halting  her  as  she  was 
opening  the  door  into  the  public  hall.  "  The  general 
has  issued  an  order  that  if  you  go  out,  you  are  not  to  be 
allowed  to  return." 

Her  hand  fell  from  the  knob.  With  flashing  eyes 
she  cried,  "  But  that  is  impossible ! " 

"  It  is  his  orders,"  said  Harding,  in  his  usual  quiet 
manner.  "  And  as  he  pays  the  bills  he  will  be 
obeyed." 

She  debated.  Against  her  will,  her  trembling  hand 
sought  the  knob  again.  Against  her  will,  her  weak  arm 
began  to  draw  the  door  open.  Harding  came  toward 
her,  stood  before  her  and  looked  directly  into  her  eyes. 
His  eyes  had  dread  and  entreaty  in  them,  but  his  voice 
was  as  always  when  he  said: 

"  You  know  him,  Mrs.  Siddall." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

u  The  reason  he  has  got  all  he  wanted  —  whatever  he 
wanted  —  is  that  he  will  go  to  any  length.  Every  other 
human  being,  almost,  has  a  limit,  beyond  which  they  will 
not  go  —  a  physical  fear  or  a  moral  fear  or  a  fear  of 
public  opinion.  But  the  general  —  he  has  no  limit." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  And  deathly  pale  and  almost  stag- 
105 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


gering  she  drew  open  the  door  and  went  out  into  the 
public  hall. 

"For  God's  sake,  Mrs.  Siddall!"  cried  Harding,  in 
great  agitation.  "  Come  in  quickly.  They  are  watch 
ing —  they  will  tell  him!  Are  you  mad?  " 

"  I  think  I  must  be,"  said  she.  "  I  am  sick  with  fear. 
I  can  hardly  keep  from  dropping  down  here  in  a  faint. 
Yet — "  a  strange  look,  a  mingling  of  abject  terror 
and  passionate  defiance,  gave  her  an  aspect  quite  insane 
— "  I  am  going.  Perhaps  I,  too,  have  no  limit." 

And  she  went  along  the  corridor,  past  a  group  of 
gaping  and  frightened  servants,  down  the  stairway  and 
out  by  the  private  entrance  for  the  grand  apartments 
of  the  hotel  in  the  Rue  Raymond  de  1'Isle.  She  crossed 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  entered  the  Tuileries  Gardens. 
It  was  only  bracingly  cool  in  the  sunshine  of  that 
winter  day.  She  seated  herself  on  a  chair  on  the 
terrace  to  regain  her  ebbed  strength.  Hardly  had  she 
sat  down  when  the  woman  collector  came  and  stood  wait 
ing  for  the  two  sous  for  the  chair.  Mildred  opened  her 
bag,  found  two  coins.  She  gave  the  coppers  to  the 
woman.  The  other  —  all  the  money  she  had  —  was  the 
fifty-centime  piece. 

"  But  the  bag  —  I  can  get  a  good  deal  for  that,"  she 
said  aloud. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  didn't  catch  that." 

She  came  back  to  a  sense  of  her  surroundings.  Stan 
ley  Baird  was  standing  a  few  feet  away,  smiling  down 
at  her.  He  was,  if  possible,  even  more  attractively 
dressed  than  in  the  days  when  he  hovered  about  her, 
hoping  vague  things  of  which  he  was  ashamed  and  try- 

106 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ing  to  get  the  courage  to  put  down  his  snobbishness  and 
marry  her  because  she  so  exactly  suited  him.  He  was 
wearing  a  new  kind  of  collar  and  tie,  striking  yet  in 
excellent  quiet  taste.  Also,  his  face  and  figure  had  filled 
out  just  enough  —  he  had  been  too  thin  in  the  former 
days.  But  he  was  now  entered  upon  that  period  of  the 
fearsome  forties  when,  unless  a  man  amounts  to  some 
thing,  he  begins  to  look  insignificant.  He  did  not 
amount  to  anything;  he  was  therefore  paling  and  wan 
ing  as  a  personality. 

"  Was  I  thinking  aloud?  "  said  Mildred,  as  she  gave 
him  her  hand. 

"  You  said  something  about  '  getting  a  good  deal.'  " 
He  inspected  her  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  friend  and 
with  the  thoroughness  of  a  connoisseur.  Women  who 
took  pains  with  themselves  and  were  satisfied  with  the 
results  liked  Stanley  Baird's  knowing  and  appreciative 
way  of  noting  the  best  points  in  their  toilets.  "  You're 
looking  fine,"  declared  he.  "  It  must  be  a  pleasure  to 
them  up  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  dress  you.  That's 
more  than  can  be  said  for  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  women 
who  go  there.  Yes,  you're  looking  fine  —  and  in  grand 
health,  too.  Why,  you  look  younger  than  I  ever  saw 
you.  Nothing  like  marriage  to  freshen  a  girl  up. 
Well,  I  suppose  waiting  round  for  a  husband  who  may 
or  may  not  turn  up  does  wear  a  woman  down." 

"  It  almost  killed  me,"  laughed  Mildred.  "  And  you 
were  largely  responsible." 

"  I?  "  said  Baird.  "  You  didn't  want  me.  I  was  too 
old  for  you." 

"  No,  I  didn't  want  you,"  said  Mildred.  "  But  you 
107 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


spoiled  me.     I   couldn't   endure   the  boys   of   my  own 
age." 

Stanley  was  remembering  that  Mildred  had  married 
a  man  much  older  than  he.  With  some  notion  of  a  care 
less  sort  of  tact  in  mind  he  said,  "  I  was  betwixt  and  be 
tween  —  neither  young  enough  nor  old  enough." 

"  You've  married,  too,  since  we  met.  By  the  way, 
thank  you  again  for  that  charming  remembrance. 
You  always  did  have  such  good  taste.  But  why 
didn't  you  come  to  the  wedding  —  you  and  your 
wife?" 

He  laughed.  "  We  were  busy  busting  up,"  said  he. 
"You  hadn't  heard?  It's  been  in  the  papers.  She's 
gone  back  to  her  people.  Oh,  nothing  disgraceful  on 
either  side.  Simply  that  we  bored  each  other  to  death. 
She  was  crazy  about  horses  and  dogs,  and  that  set.  I 
think  the  stable's  the  place  for  horses  —  don't  care  to 
have  'em  parading  through  the  house  all  the  time,  every 
room,  every  meal,  sleeping  and  waking.  And  dogs  — 
the  infernal  brutes  always  have  fleas.  Fleas  only  tickled 
her,  but  they  bite  me  —  raise  welts  and  hills.  There's 
your  husband  now,  isn't  it?  " 

Baird  was  looking  up  at  the  windows  of  the  Conti 
nental,  across  the  street.  Mildred's  glance  slowly  and 
carelessly  followed  his.  At  one  window  stood  the  little 
general,  gazing  abstractedly  out  over  the  gardens.  At 
another  window  Mildred  saw  Harding;  at  a  third,  her 
maid;  at  a  fourth,  Harding's  assistant,  Drawl;  at  a 
fifth,  three  servants  of  the  retinue.  Except  the  general, 
all  were  looking  at  her. 

"  You've  married  a  very   extraordinary  man,"   said 
108 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Baird,  in  a  correct  tone  of  admiration.     "  One  of  the 
ablest  and  most  interesting  men  we've  got,  /  think." 

"  So  you  are  free  again?"  said  Mildred,  looking  at 
him  with  a  queer,  cold  smile. 

"  Yes,  and  no,"  replied  Stanley.  "  I  hope  to  be  en 
tirely  free.  It's  her  move  next.  I'm  expecting  it 
every  day.  But  I'm  thoroughly  respectable.  Won't 
you  and  the  general  dine  with  me?  " 

"  Thanks,  but  I'm  sailing  for  home  to-morrow  or 
next  day." 

"  That's  interesting,"  said  Baird,  with  enthusiasm. 
"  So  am  I.  What  ship  do  you  go  on  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I'm  to  decide  this  afternoon, 
after  lunch."  She  laughed.  "  I'm  sitting  here  wait 
ing  for  someone  to  ask  me  to  lunch.  I've  not  had  even 
coffee  yet." 

"  Lunch  with  me ! "  cried  Baird.  "  I'll  go  get  the 
general  —  I  know  him  slightly." 

"  I  didn't  say  anything  about  the  general,"  said  Mil 
dred. 

Stanley  smiled  apologetically.  "  It  wouldn't  do  for 
you  to  go  about  with  me  —  not  when  my  missus  is  look 
ing  for  grounds  for  divorce." 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Mildred.     "  So's  my  husband." 

"  You  busted  up,  too  ?  Now,  that's  what  7  call 
jolly."  And  he  cast  a  puzzled  glance  up  at  the  ab 
stracted  general.  "  I  say,  Mildred,  this  is  no  place  for 
either  of  us,  is  it?  " 

"  I'd  rather  be  where  there's  food,"  confessed  she. 

"  You  think  it's  a  j  oke,  but  I  assure  you  —  Oh, 
you  were  joking  —  about  your  bust-up?" 

109 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  No,  indeed,"  she  assured  him.  "  I  walked  out  a 
while  ago,  and  I  couldn't  go  back  if  I  would  —  and  I 
don't  think  I  would  if  I  could." 

"  That's  foolish.  Better  go  back,"  advised  he.  He 
was  preparing  hastily  to  decamp  from  so  perilous  a 
neighborhood.  "  One  marriage  is  about  like  another, 
once  you  get  through  the  surface.  I'm  sure  you'll  be 
better  off  than  —  back  with  your  stepfather." 

"  I've  no  intention  of  going  to  his  house,"  she  de 
clared. 

"  Oh,  there's  your  brother.     I  forgot." 

"  So  had  I  forgotten  him.  I'll  not  go  there,  either. 
In  fact,  I've  not  thought  where  I'll  go." 

"  You  seem  to  have  done  mighty  little  thinking  be 
fore  you  took  a  very  serious  step  for  a  woman."  He 
was  uneasily  eying  the  rigid,  abstracted  little  figure  a 
story  up  across  the  way. 

"  Those  things  aren't  a  question  of  thinking,"  said 
she  absently.  "  I  never  thought  in  my  life  —  don't 
think  I  could  if  I  tried.  But  when  the  time  came  I  — 
I  walked  out."  She  came  back  to  herself,  laughed. 
"  I  don't  understand  why  I'm  telling  you  all  this,  espe 
cially  as  you're  mad  with  fright  and  wild  to  get  away. 
Well,  good-by,  Stanley." 

He  lifted  his  hat.  "  Good-by.  We'll  meet  when  we 
can  do  so  without  my  getting  a  scandal  on  you."  He 
walked  a  few  paces,  turned,  and  came  back.  "  By  the 
way,  I'm  sailing  on  the  Deutschland.  I  thought  you'd 
like  to  know  —  so  that  you  and  I  wouldn't  by  any 
chance  cross  on  the  same  boat." 

"  Thanks,"  said  she  dryly. 
110 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  What's  the  matter?  "  asked  he,  arrested,  despite  his 
anxiety  to  be  gone,  by  the  sad,  scornful  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"Nothing.     Why?" 

"  You  had  such  a  —  such  a  queer  look." 

"Really?     Good-by." 

In  fact,  she  had  thought  —  had  hoped  for  the  sake 
of  her  liking  for  him  —  that  he  had  come  back  to  make 
the  glaringly  omitted  offer  of  help  that  should  have 
come  from  any  human  being  learning  that  a  fellow  be 
ing  was  in  the  precarious  position  in  which  she  had  told 
him  she  was.  Not  that  she  would  have  accepted  any 
such  offer.  Still,  she  would  have  liked  to  have  heard  the 
kindly  words.  She  sat  watching  his  handsome,  grace 
ful  figure,  draped  in  the  most  artistically  cut  of  long 
dark  overcoats,  until  he  disappeared  in  the  crowd  in 
the  Rue  de  Castiglione.  Then,  without  a  glance  up 
at  the  interested,  not  to  say  excited  windows  of  the 
general's  splendid  and  spreading  apartments,  she 
strolled  down  the  gardens  toward  the  Place  Concorde. 
In  Paris  the  beautiful,  on  a  bright  and  brisk  day  it  is 
all  but  impossible  to  despair  when  one  still  has  left 
youth  and  health.  Mildred  was  not  happy  —  far  from 
it.  The  future,  the  immediate  future,  pressed  its  ter 
rors  upon  her.  But  in  mitigation  there  was,  perhaps 
born  of  youth  and  inexperience,  a  giddy  sense  of  relief. 
She  had  not  realized  how  abhorrent  the  general  was  — 
married  life  with  the  general.  She  had  been  resigning 
herself  to  it,  accepting  it  as  the  only  thing  possible, 
keeping  it  heavily  draped  with  her  vanities  of  wealth 
and  luxury  —  until  she  discovered  that  the  wealth  and 

111 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  luxury  were  in  reality  no  more  hers  than  they  were 
her  maid's.  And  now  she  was  free! 

That  word  free  did  not  have  its  full  meaning  for  her. 
She  had  never  known  what  real  freedom  was ;  women 
of  the  comfortable  class  —  and  men,  too,  for  that  mat 
ter  —  usually  are  born  into  the  petty  slavery  of  conven 
tions  at  least,  and  know  nothing  else  their  whole  lives 
through  —  never  know  the  joy  of  the  thought  and  the 
act  of  a  free  mind  and  a  free  heart.  Still,  she  was  re 
leased  from  a  bondage  that  seemed  slavish  even  to  her, 
and  the  release  gave  her  a  sensation  akin  to  the  joy  of 
freedom.  A  heavy  hand  that  was  crushing  her  very 
soul  had  been  lifted  off  —  no,  flung  off,  and  by  herself. 
That  thought,  terrifying  though  it  was,  also  gave  her 
a  certain  new  and  exalting  self-respect.  After  all,  she 
was  not  a  worm.  She  must  have  somewhere  in  her  the 
germs  of  something  less  contemptible  than  the  essential 
character  of  so  many  of  the  eminently  respectable 
women  she  knew.  She  could  picture  them  in  the  situa 
tion  in  which  she  had  found  herself.  What  would  they 
have  done?  Why,  what  every  instinct  of  her  education 
impelled  her  to  do ;  what  some  latent  love  of  freedom, 
some  unsuspected  courage  of  self-respect  had  forbidden 
her  to  do,  had  withheld  her  from  doing. 

Her  thoughts  and  the  gorgeous  sunshine  and  her 
youth  and  health  put  her  in  a  steadily  less  cheerless 
mood  as  by  a  roundabout  way  she  sought  the  shop  of  the 
jeweler  who  sold  the  general  the  gold  bag  she  had  se 
lected.  The  proprietor  himself  was  in  the  front  part 
of  the  shop  and  received  "  Madame  la  Generale  "  with 
all  the  honors  of  her  husband's  wealth.  She  brought 

112 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


no  experience  and  no  natural  trading  talent  to  the  en 
terprise  she  was  about  to  undertake;  so  she  went  di 
rectly  to  the  main  point. 

"  This  bag,"  said  she,  laying  it  upon  the  glass  be 
tween  them,  "  I  bought  it  here  a  short  time  ago." 

"  I  remember  perfectly,  madame.  It  is  the  hand 
somest,  the  most  artistic,  we  have  sold  this  year." 

"  I  wish  to  sell  it  back  to  you,"  said  she. 

"  You  wish  to  get  something  else  and  include  it  as 
part  payment,  madame?  " 

"  No,  I  wish  to  get  the  money  for  it." 

"Ah,  but  that  is  difficult.  We  do  not  often  make 
those  arrangements.  Second-hand  articles  — 

"  But  the  bag  is  quite  new.  Anyhow,  it  must  have 
some  value.  Of  course  I'd  not  expect  the  full  price." 

The  jeweler  smiled.  "The  full  price?  Ah,  ma 
dame,  we  should  not  think  of  offering  it  again  as  it  is. 
We  should—" 

"  No  matter,"  interrupted  Mildred.  The  man's  ex 
pression  —  the  normally  pleasant  and  agreeable  counte 
nance  turned  to  repulsive  by  craft  and  lying  —  made 
her  eager  to  be  gone.  "  What  is  the  most  you  will 
give  me?  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  consider  — " 

"  I've  only  a  few  minutes.  Please  do  not  irritate 
me." 

The  man  was  studying  her  countenance  with  a  des 
perate  look.  Why  was  she,  the  bride  of  the  mon 
strously  rich  American,  why  was  she  trying  to  sell  the 
bag?  Did  it  mean  the  end  of  her  resources?  Or,  were 
there  still  huge  orders  to  be  got  from  her?  His  shrewd- 

113 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ness,  trained  by  thirty  years  of  dealing  with  all  kinds  of 
luxurious  human  beings,  went  exploring  in  vain.  He 
was  alarmed  by  her  frown.  He  began  hesitatingly: 

"  The  jewels  and  the  gold  are  only  a  small  part  of 
the  value.  The  chief  value  is  the  unique  design,  so  ele 
gant  yet  so  simple.  For  the  jewels  and  the  gold,  per 
haps  two  thousand  francs  — " 

"  The  purse  was  twelve  thousand  francs,"  interrupted 
she. 

"  Perfectly,  madame.     But  — " 

"  I  am  in  great  haste.  How  much  will  you  give 
me?  " 

"  The  most  would  be  four  thousand,  I  fear.  I  shall 
count  up  more  carefully,  if  madame  will  — 

"  No,  four  thousand  will  do." 

"  I  will  send  the  money  to  madame  at  her  hotel.  The 
Continental,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  No,  I  must  have  it  at  once." 

The  jeweler  hesitated.  Mildred,  flushing  scarlet  with 
shame  —  but  he  luckily  thought  it  anger  —  took  up  the 
bag  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Pardon,  madame,  but  certainly.  Do  you  wish 
some  gold  or  all  notes  ?  " 

"  Notes,"  answered  she.  "  Fifty  and  hundred-franc 
notes." 

A  moment  later  she  was  in  the  street  with  the  notes 
in  a  small  bundle  in  the  bosom  of  her  wrap.  She  went 
hurriedly  up  the  street.  As  she  was  about  to  turn  the 
corner  into  the  boulevard  she  on  impulse  glanced  back. 
An  automobile  had  just  drawn  up  at  the  jeweler's  door 
and  General  Siddall  —  top-hat,  sable-lined  overcoat, 

114 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


waxed  mustache  and  imperial,  high-heeled  boots,  gold- 
mounted  cane  —  was  descending.  And  she  knew  that 
he  had  awakened  to  his  one  oversight,  and  was  on  his 
way  to  repair  it.  But  she  did  not  know  that  the  j  eweler 

—  old  and  wise  in  human  ways  —  would  hastily  vanish 
with  the  bag  and  that  an  assistant  would  come  forward 
with  assurances  that  madame  had  not  been  in  the  shop 
and  that,  if  she  should  come  in,  no  business  would  be 
negotiated  without  the  general's  express  consent.     She 
all  but  fainted  at  the  narrowness  of  her  escape  and  fled 
round  into  the  boulevard.     She  entered  a  taxi  and  told 
the  man  to  drive  to  Foyot's  restaurant  on  the  left  bank 

—  where  the  general  would  never  think  of  looking  for 
her. 

When  she  had  breakfasted  she  strolled  in  the  Luxem 
bourg  Gardens^  in  even  better  humor  with  herself  and 
with  the  world.  There  was  still  that  horrid-faced 
future,  but  it  was  not  leering  into  her  very  face.  It 
was  nearly  four  thousand  francs  away  — "  and  if  I 
hadn't  been  so  stupid,  I'd  have  got  eight  thousand,  I'm 
sure,"  she  said.  But  she  was  rather  proud  of  a  stupid 
ity  about  money  matters.  And  four  thousand  francs, 
eight  hundred  dollars  —  that  was  quite  a  good  sum. 

She  had  an  instinct  that  the  general  would  do  some 
thing  disagreeable  about  the  French  and  English  ports 
of  departure  for  America.  But  perhaps  he  would  not 
think  of  the  Italian  ports.  That  night  she  set  out  for 
Genoa,  and  three  days  later,  in  a  different  dress  and 
with  her  hair  done  as  she  never  wore  it,  sailed  as  Miss 
Alary  Stevens  for  America  on  a  German  Mediterranean 
boat. 

115 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


She  had  taken  the  whole  of  a  cabin  on  the  quieter 
deck  below  the  promenade,  paying  for  it  nearly  half 
of  what  was  left  of  the  four  thousand  francs.  The 
first  three  days  she  kept  to  her  cabin  except  at  the  din 
ner-hour,  when  she  ventured  to  the  deck  just  outside 
and  walked  up  and  down  for  exercise.  Then  followed 
four  days  of  nasty  weather  during  which  she  did  not 
leave  her  bed.  As  the  sea  calmed,  she,  wretched  and 
reckless,  had  a  chair  put  for  herself  under  her  window 
and  sat  there,  veiled  and  swathed  and  turning  her  face 
away  whenever  a  rare  wandering  passenger  happened 
to  pass  along.  Toward  noon  a  man  paused  before  her 
to  light  a  cigarette.  She,  forgetting  for  the  moment 
her  precautions,  looked  at  him.  It  chanced  that  he 
looked  at  her  at  exactly  the  same  instant.  Their 
glances  met.  He  started  nervously,  moved  on  a  few 
steps,  returned.  Said  she  mockingly: 

"  You  know  you  needn't  speak  if  you  don't  want  to, 
Stanley." 

"  There  isn't  a  soul  on  board  that  anybody  ever 
knew  or  that  ever  knew  anybody,"  said  he.  "  So  why 
not?  " 

"  And  you  look  horribly  bored." 

"  Unspeakably,"  replied  Baird.  "  I've  spoken  to  no 
one  since  I  left  Paris." 

"  What  are  you  doing  on  this  ship  ?  "  inquired  she. 

"  To  be  perfectly  honest,"  said  he,  "  I  came  this  way 
to  avoid  you.  I  was  afraid  you'd  take  passage  on  my 
steamer  just  to  amuse  yourself  with  my  nervousness. 
And  —  here  you  are !  " 

"  Amusing  myself  with  your  nervousness." 
116 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  But  I'm  not  nervous.  There's  no  danger.  Will 
you  let  me  have  a  chair  put  beside  yours?" 

"  It  will  be  a  charity  on  your  part,"  said  she. 

When  he  was  comfortably  settled,  he  explained  his 
uneasiness.  "  I  see  I've  got  to  tell  you,"  said  he,  "  for 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  a  shouting  ass.  The  fact 
is  my  wife  wants  to  get  a  divorce  from  me  and  to  soak 
me  for  big  alimony.  She's  a  woman  who'll  do  anything 
to  gain  her  end,  and  —  well,  for  some  reason  she's  al 
ways  been  jealous  of  you.  I  didn't  care  to  get  into 
trouble,  or  to  get  you  into  trouble." 

"  I'm  traveling  as  Mary  Stevens,"  said  Mildred. 
"  No  one  knows  I'm  aboard." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  we're  quite  safe.  We  can  enjoy  the 
rest  of  this  voyage." 

A  sea  voyage  not  merely  induces  but  compels  a  feel 
ing  of  absolute  detachment  from  the  world.  To  both 
Stanley  and  Mildred  their  affairs  —  the  difficulties  in 
which  they  were  involved  on  terra  firma  —  ceased  for 
the  time  to  have  any  reality.  The  universe  was  noth 
ing  but  a  vast  stretch  of  water  under  a  vast  stretch 
of  sky;  the  earth  and  the  things  thereof  were  a  retro 
spect  and  a  foreboding.  Without  analyzing  it,  both 
he  and  she  felt  that  they  were  free  —  free  from  cares, 
from  responsibilities  —  free  to  amuse  themselves.  And 
they  proceeded  to  enjoy  themselves  in  the  necessarily 
quiet  and  limited  way  imposed  by  the  littleness  of 
their  present  world  and  the  meagerness  of  the 
resources. 

As  neither  had  the  kind  of  mind  that  expands  in  ab 
stractions,  they  were  soon  talking  in  the  most  intimate 

117 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  personal  Way  about  themselves  —  were  confessing 
things  which  neither  would  have  breathed  to  anyone 
on  land.  It  was  the  man  who  set  the  example  of  break 
ing  through  the  barriers  of  conventional  restraint  — 
perhaps  of  delicacy,  though  it  must  be  said  that  human 
beings  are  rarely  so  fine  in  their  reticences  as  the  theory 
of  refinement  would  have  us  believe.  Said  Stanley, 
after  the  preliminaries  of  partial  confidence  and  halting 
avowal  that  could  not  be  omitted,  even  at  sea,  by  a  man 
of  "  gentlemanly  instinct " : 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  own  up.  I  know 
you'll  never  tell  anybody.  Fact  is,  I  and  my  wife  were 
never  in  love  with  each  other  for  a  second.  We  married 
because  we  were  in  the  same  set  and  because  our  incomes 
together  gave  us  enough  to  do  the  thing  rather  well." 
After  a  solemn  pause.  "  I  was  in  love  with  another 
woman  —  one  I  couldn't  marry.  But  I'll  not  go  into 
that.  As  for  my  wife,  I  don't  think  she  was  in  love 
with  anyone.  She's  as  cold  as  a  stone." 

Mildred  smiled  ironically. 

Baird  saw  and  flushed.  "  At  least,  she  was  to  me. 
I  was  ready  to  make  a  sort  of  bluff.  You  see,  a  man 
feels  guilty  in  those  circumstances  and  doesn't  want 
to  humiliate  a  woman.  But  she "  he  laughed  un 
pleasantly  — "  she  wasn't  bothering  about  my  feelings. 
That's  a  nice,  selfish  little  way  you  ladies  have." 

"  She  probably  saw  through  you  and  hated  you  for 
playing  the  hypocrite  to  her,"  said  Mildred. 

"  You  may  be  right,  I  never  thought  of  that,"  con 
fessed  he.  "  She  certainly  had  a  vicious  way  of  ham 
mering  the  other  woman  indirectly.  Not  that  she  ever 

118 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


admitted  being  jealous.  I  guess  she  knew.  Every 
body  usually  knows  everything." 

"  And  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  you  and 
me,"  said  Mildred  placidly. 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  you,"  protested  Stanley,  red 
dening. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Mildred.  "  Don't  bother  about 
that.  It's  all  past  and  gone." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  my  marriage  was  the  mistake  of 
my  life.  I'm  determined  that  she  shan't  trip  me  up  and 
trim  me  for  any  alimony.  And  as  matters  stand,  she 
can't.  She  left  me  of  her  own  accord." 

"Then,"  said  Mildred  thoughtfully,  "if  the  wife 
leaves  of  her  own  accord,  she  can't  get  alimony?  " 

"  Certainly  not  —  not  a  cent." 

"  I  supposed  so,"  said  she.  "  I'm  not  sure  I'd  take  it 
if  I  could  get  it.  Still,  I  suppose  I  would."  She 
laughed.  "  What's  the  use  of  being  a  hypocrite  with 
oneself?  I  know  I  would.  All  I  could  get." 

"  Then  you  had  no  legal  excuse  for  leaving?  " 

"No,"  said  she.  "I  — just  bolted.  I  don't  know 
what's  to  become  of  me.  I  seem  not  to  care,  at  present, 
but  no  doubt  I  shall  as  soon  as  we  see  land  again." 

"  You'll  go  back  to  him,"  said  Stanley. 

"  No,"  replied  she,  without  emphasis  or  any  accent 
whatever. 

"  Sure  you  will,"  rejoined  he.  "  It's  your  living. 
What  else  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  must  find  out.  Surely  there's  some 
thing  else  for  a  woman  besides  such  a  married  life  as 
mine.  I  can't  and  won't  go  back  to  my  husband.  And 

119 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


I  can't  and  won't  go  to  the  house  at  Hanging  Rock. 
Those  two  things  are  settled." 

"  You  mean  that?  " 

"Absolutely.  And  I've  got  —  less  than  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars  in  the  whole  world." 

Baird  was  silent.  He  was  roused  from  his  abstrac 
tion  by  gradual  consciousness  of  an  ironical  smile  on 
the  face  of  the  girl,  for  she  did  not  look  like  a  married 
woman.  "  You  are  laughing  at  me.  Why?  "  inquired 
he. 

"  I  was  reading  your  thoughts." 

"  You  think  you've  frightened  me  ?  " 

"  Naturally.  Isn't  a  confession  such  as  I  made 
enough  to  frighten  a  man?  It  sounded  as  though  I 
were  getting  ready  to  ask  alms." 

"  So  it  did,"  said  he.  "  But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  it 
in  that  way.  You  mil  be  in  a  frightful  fix  pretty  soon, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  It  looks  that  way.     But  you  need  not  be  uneasy." 

66  Oh,  I  want  to  help  you.  I'll  do  everything  I  can. 
I  was  trying  to  think  of  something  you  could  make 
money  at.  I  was  thinking  of  the  stage,  but  I  suppose 
you'd  balk  at  that.  I'll  admit  it  isn't  the  life  for  a 
lady.  But  the  same  thing's  true  of  whatever  money 
can  be  made  at.  If  I  were  you,  I'd  go  back." 

"If  I  were  myself,  I'd  go  back,"  said  Mildred. 
"  But  I'm  not  myself." 

"  You  will  be  again,  as  soon  as  you  face  the  situa 
tion." 

"  No,"  said  she  slowly,  u  no,  I  shall  never  be  myself 
again." 

120 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  But  you  could  have  everything  a  woman  wants. 
Except,  of  course  —  perhaps  —  But  you  never  struck 
me  as  being  especially  sentimental." 

"  Sentiment  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  rejoined  she. 
"  Do  you  think  I  could  get  a  place  on  the  stage?  " 

"  Oh,  you'd  have  to  study  a  while,  I  suppose.'* 

"  But  I  can't  afford  that.  If  I  could  afford  to  study, 
I'd  have  my  voice  trained." 

Baird's  face  lighted  up  with  enthusiasm.  "  The  very 
thing !  "  he  cried.  "  You've  got  a  voice,  a  grand-opera 
voice.  I've  heard  lots  of  people  say  so,  and  it  sounded 
that  way  to  me.  You  must  cultivate  your  voice." 

Mildred  laughed.  "Don't  talk  nonsense.  Even  I 
know  that's  nonsense.  The  lessons  alone  would  cost 
thousands  of  dollars.  And  how  could  I  live  for  the 
four  or  five  years?  " 

"  You  didn't  let  me  finish,"  said  Baird.  "  I  was  go 
ing  to  say  that  when  you  get  to  New  York  you  must 
go  and  have  your  voice  passed  on  —  by  some  impartial 
person.  If  that  person  says  it's  worth  cultivating,  why, 
I'm  willing  to  back  you  —  as  a  business  proposition. 
I  can  afford  to  take  the  risk.  So,  you  see,  it's  all  per 
fectly  simple." 

He  had  spoken  rapidly,  with  a  covert  suggestion  of 
fear  lest  she  would  rebuke  him  sharply  for  what  she 
might  regard  as  an  impertinent  offer.  She  surprised 
him  by  looking  at  him  calmly,  reflectively,  and  say 
ing: 

"Yes,  you  could  afford  it,  couldn't  you?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  could.  And  it's  the  sort  of  thing  that's 
done  every  day.  Of  course,  no  one'd  know  that  we  had 

121 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


made  this  little  business  arrangement.  But  that's  easily 
managed.  I'd  be  glad  if  you'd  let  me  do  it,  Mildred. 
I'd  like  to  feel  that  I  was  of  some  use  in  the  world. 
And  I'd  like  to  do  something  for  you" 

By  way  of  exceedingly  cautious  experiment  he  ven 
tured  to  put  ever  so  slight  an  accent  of  tenderness  upon 
the  "  you."  He  observed  her  furtively  but  nervously. 
He  could  not  get  a  hint  of  what  was  in  her  mind.  She 
gazed  out  toward  the  rising  and  falling  horizon  line. 
Presently  she  said: 

"  I'll  think  about  it." 

"  You  must  let  me  do  it,  Mildred.  It's  the  sensible 
thing  —  and  you  know  me  well  enough  to  know  that 
my  friendship  can  be  counted  on." 

"  I'll  think  about  it,"  was  all  she  would  concede. 

They  discussed  the  singing  career  all  that  and  the 
succeeding  days  —  the  possibilities,  the  hopes,  the  dan 
gers  —  but  the  hopes  a  great  deal  more  than  the  dan 
gers.  He  became  more  and  more  interested  in  her  and 
in  the  project,  as  her  beauty  shone  out  with  the  tran 
quillizing  sea  and  as  her  old  charm  of  cleverness  at  say 
ing  things  that  amused  him  reasserted  itself.  She, 
dubious  and  lukewarm  at  first,  soon  was  trying  to  curb 
her  own  excited  optimism ;  but  long  before  they  sighted 
Sandy  Hook  she  was  merely  pretending  to  hang  back. 
He  felt  discouraged  by  her  parting !  "  If  I  decide  to 
go  on,  I'll  write  you  in  a  few  days."  But  he  need  not 
have  felt  so.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  accept  his 
offer.  As  for  the  complications  involved  in  such  curi 
ously  intimate  relations  with  a  man  of  his  temperament, 
habits,  and  inclinations,  she  saw  them  very  vaguely  in- 

122 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


deed  —  refused  to  permit  herself  to  see  them  any  less 
vaguely.  Time  enough  to  deal  with  complications 
when  and  as  they  arose;  why  needlessly  and  foolishly 
annoy  herself  and  hamper  herself?  Said  she  to  her 
self,  "  I  must  begin  to  be  practical." 


123 


IV 

AT  the  pier  Mildred  sent  her  mother  a  telegram,  giv 
ing  the  train  by  which  she  would  arrive  —  that  and 
nothing  more.  As  she  descended  from  the  parlor-car 
there  stood  Mrs.  Presbury  upon  the  platform,  face 
wreathed  in  the  most  joyous  of  welcoming  smiles,  not 
a  surface  trace  of  the  curiosity  and  alarm  storming 
within.  After  they  had  kissed  and  embraced  with  a 
genuine  emotion  which  they  did  not  try  to  hide,  because 
both  suddenly  became  unconscious  of  that  world  whereof 
ordinarily  they  were  constantly  mindful  —  after  caresses 
and  tears  Mrs.  Presbury  said : 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  dress  plain,  when  everyone 
knows  you  can  afford  the  best.  But  don't  you  think 
you're  overdoing  it  a  little  ?  " 

Mildred  laughed  somewhat  nervously.  "  Wait  till 
we're  safe  at  home,"  said  she. 

On  the  way  up  from  the  station  in  the  carriage  they 
chattered  away  in  the  liveliest  fashion,  to  make  the 
proper  impression  upon  any  observing  Hanging- 
Rockers.  "  Luckily,  Presbury's  gone  to  town  to-day," 
said  his  wife.  "  But  really  he's  quite  livable  —  hasn't 
gone  back  to  his  old  ways.  He  doesn't  know  it,  but 
he's  rapidly  growing  deaf.  He  imagines  that  every 
one  is  speaking  more  and  more  indistinctly,  and  he  has 
lost  interest  in  conversation.  Then,  too,  he  has  done 

124 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


well  in  Wall  Street,  and  that  has  put  him  in  a  good 
humor." 

"  He'll  not  be  surprised  to  see  me  —  alone,"  said 
Mildred. 

"  Wait  till  we're  home,"  said  her  mother  nervously. 

At  the  house  Mrs.  Presbury  carried  on  a  foolish, 
false-sounding  conversation  for  the  benefit  of  the  serv 
ants,  and  finally  conducted  Mildred  to  her  bedroom  and 
shut  doors  and  drew  portieres  and  glanced  into  closets 
before  saying :  "  Now,  what  is  the  matter,  Millie  ? 
Where  is  your  husband  ?  " 

"  In  Paris,  I  suppose,"  replied  Mildred.  "  I  have 
left  him,  and  I  shall  never  go  back." 

"  Presbury  said  you  would ! "  cried  her  mother. 
"  But  I  didn't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it.  I  brought 
you  up  to  do  your  duty,  and  I  know  you  will." 

This  was  Mildred's  first  opportunity  for  frank  and 
plain  speaking;  and  that  is  highly  conducive  to  frank 
and  plain  thinking.  She  now  began  to  see  clearly  why 
she  had  quit  the  general.  Said  she :  "  Mamma,  to  be 
honest  and  not  mince  words,  I've  left  him  because  there's 
nothing  in  it." 

"  Isn't  he  rich?  "  inquired  her  mother.  "  I've  always 
had  a  kind  of  present — " 

"  Oh,  he's  rich,  all  right,"  interrupted  the  girL 
"  But  he  saw  to  it  that  I  got  no  benefit  from  that." 

"  But  you  wrote  me  how  he  was  buying  you  every 
thing!" 

"  So  I  thought.  In  fact  he  was  buying  me  noth 
ing."  And  she  went  on  to  explain  the  general's  system. 

Her  mother  listened  impatiently.  She  would  have  in- 
125 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


terrupted  the  long  and  angry  recital  many  times  had 
not  Mildred  insisted  on  a  full  hearing  of  her  griev 
ances,  of  the  outrages  that  had  been  heaped  upon  her. 
"  And,"  she  ended,  "  I  suppose  he's  got  it  so  arranged 
that  he  could  have  me  arrested  as  a  thief  for  taking  the 
gold  bag." 

"  Yes,  it's  terrible  and  all  that,"  said  her  mother. 
"  But  I  should  have  thought  living  with  me  here  when 
Presbury  was  carrying  on  so  dreadfully  would  have 
taught  you  something.  Your  case  isn't  an  exception, 
any  more  than  mine  is.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  we 
women  have  to  put  up  with  from  men,  when  we're  in 
their  power." 

"Not  I,"  said  Mildred  loftily. 

"  Yes,  you,"  retorted  her  mother.  "  Any  woman. 
Every  woman.  Unless  we  have  money  of  our  own,  we  all 
have  trouble  with  the  men  about  money,  sooner  or  later, 
in  one  way  or  another.  And  rich  men !  —  why,  it's  noto 
rious  that  they're  always  more  or  less  mean  about  money. 
A  wife  has  got  to  use  tact.  Why,  I  even  had  to  use 
some  tact  with  your  father,  and  he  was  as  generous  a 
man  as  ever  lived.  Tact  —  that's  a  woman's  whole  life. 
You  ought  to  have  used  tact.  You'll  go  back  to  him 
and  use  tact." 

"  You  don't  know  him,  mamma ! "  cried  Mildred. 
"  He's  a  monster.  He  isn't  human." 

Mrs.  Presbury  drew  a  long  face  and  said  in  a  sad, 
soothing  voice :  "  Yes,  I  know,  dear.  Men  are  very, 
very  awful,  in  some  ways,  to  a  nice  woman  —  with  re 
fined,  ladylike  instincts.  It's  a  great  shock  to  a 


pure  — " 


126 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Oh,  gammon  !  "  interrupted  Mildred.  "  Don't  be 
silly,  mother.  It  isn't  worth  while  for  one  woman  to 
talk  that  kind  of  thing  to  another.  I  didn't  fully  know 
what  I  was  doing  when  I  married  a  man  I  didn't  love 
—  a  man  who  was  almost  repulsive  to  me.  But  I  knew 
enough.  And  I  was  getting  along  well  enough,  as  any 
woman  does,  no  matter  what  she  may  say  —  yes,  you 
needn't  look  shocked,  for  that's  hypocrisy,  and  I  know 
it  now  —  But,  as  I  was  saying,  I  didn't  begin  to  hate 
him  until  he  tried  to  make  a  slave  of  me.  A  slave !  " 
she  shuddered.  "  He's  a  monster !  " 

"  A  little  tact,  and  you  can  get  everything  you  want," 
insisted  her  mother. 

"  I  tell  you,  you  don't  know  the  man,"  cried  Mildred. 
"  By  tact  I  suppose  you  mean  I  could  have  sold  things 
behind  his  back  —  and  all  that."  She  laughed.  "  He 
hasn't  got  any  back.  He  had  it  so  arranged  that  those 
cold,  wicked  eyes  of  his  were  always  watching  me.  His 
second  wife  tried  '  tact.'  He  caught  her  and  drove  her 
into  the  streets.  I'd  have  had  no  chance  to  get  a  cent, 
and  if  I  had  gotten  it  I'd  not  have  dared  spend  it.  Do 
you  imagine  I  ran  away  from  him  without  having 
thought?  If  there'd  been  any  way  of  staying  on,  any 
way  of  making  things  even  endurable,  I'd  have 
stayed." 

"  But  you've  got  to  go  back,  Milly,"  cried  her 
mother,  in  tears. 

"You  mean  that  you  can't  support  me?" 

"  And  your  brother  Frank  — "  Mrs.  Presbury's 
eyes  flashed  and  her  rather  stout  cheeks  quivered.  "  I 
never  thought  I'd  tell  anybody,  but  I'll  tell  you.  I 

127 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


never  liked  your  brother  Frank,  and  he  never  liked  me. 
That  sounds  dreadful,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  No,  mother  dear,"  said  Mildred  gently.  "  I've 
learned  that  life  isn't  at  all  as  —  as  everybody  pre 
tends." 

"  Indeed  it  isn't,"  said  her  mother.  "  Mothers  always 
have  favorites  among  their  children,  and  very  often  a 
mother  dislikes  one  of  her  children.  Of  course  she 
hides  her  feeling  and  does  her  duty.  But  all  the  same 
she  can't  help  the  feeling  that  is  down  in  her  heart.  I 
had  a  presentiment  before  he  was  born  that  I  wouldn't 
like  him,  and  sure  enough,  I  didn't.  And  he  didn't  like 
me,  or  his  father,  or  any  of  us." 

"  It  would  never  occur  to  me  to  turn  to  him,"  said 
Mildred. 

"  Then  you  see  that  you've  got  to  go  back  to  the 
general.  You  can't  get  a  divorce  and  alimony,  for  it 
was  you  that  left  him  —  and  for  no  cause.  He  was 
within  his  rights." 

Mildred  hesitated,  confessed :  "  I  had  thought  of 
going  back  to  him  and  acting  in  such  a  way  that  he'd 
be  glad  to  give  me  a  divorce  and  an  allowance." 

"  Yes,  you  might  do  that,"  said  her  mother.  "  A 
great  many  women  do.  And,  after  all,  haven't  they  a 
right  to?  A  lady  has  got  to  have  proper  support,  and 
is  it  just  to  ask  her  to  live  with  a  man  she  loathes?  " 

"  I  haven't  thought  of  the  right  or  wrong  of  it,"  said 
Mildred.  "  It  looks  to  me  as  though  right  and  wrong 
have  very  little  to  do  with  life  as  it's  lived.  They're  for 
hypocrites  —  and  fools." 

"  Mildred !  "  exclaimed  her  mother,  deeply  shocked. 

128 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mildred  was  not  a  little  shocked  at  her  own  thoughts 
as  she  inspected  them  in  the  full  light  into  which  speech 
had  dragged  them.  "  Anyhow,"  she  went  on,  "  I  soon 
saw  that  such  a  plan  was  hopeless.  He's  not  the  man  to 
be  trifled  with.  Long  before  I  could  drive  him  to  give 
me  a  living  and  let  me  go  he  would  have  driven  me  to 
flight  or  suicide." 

Her  mother  had  now  had  time  to  reflect  upon  Mildred's 
revelations.  Aided  by  the  impressions  she  herself  had 
gotten  of  the  little  general,  she  began  to  understand  why 
her  daughter  had  fled  and  why  she  would  not  return. 
She  felt  that  the  situation  was  one  which  time  alone 
could  solve.  Said  she:  "Well,  the  best  thing  is  for 
you  to  stay  on  here  and  wait  until  he  makes  some 
move." 

"He'll  have  me  watched  —  that's  all  he'll  do,"  said 
Mildred.  "  When  he  gets  ready  he'll  divorce  me  for 
deserting  him." 

Mrs.  Presbury  felt  that  she  was  right.  But,  con 
cealing  her  despondency,  she  said :  "  All  we  can  do 
is  to  wait  and  see.  You  must  send  for  your  luggage." 

"  I've  nothing  but  a  large  bag,"  said  Mildred.  "  I 
checked  it  in  the  parcel-room  of  the  New  York  station." 

Mrs.  Presbury  was  overwhelmed.  How  account  to 
Hanging  Rock  for  the  reappearance  of  a  baggageless 
and  husbandless  bride?  But  she  held  up  bravely. 
With  a  cheerfulness  that  did  credit  to  her  heart  and 
showed  how  well  she  loved  her  daughter  she  said :  "  We 
must  do  the  best  we  can.  We'll  get  up  some  story." 

"  No,"  said  Mildred.  "  I'm  going  back  to  New 
York.  You  can  tell  people  here  what  you  please  — 

129 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


that  I've  gone  to  rejoin  him  or  to  wait  for  him  —  any 
old  thing." 

"  At  least  you'll  wait  and  talk  with  Presbury," 
pleaded  her  mother.  "  He  is  very  sensible." 

"  If  he  has  anything  to  suggest,"  said  Mildred,  "  he 
can  write  it.  I'll  send  you  my  address." 

"  Milly,"  cried  her  mother,  agitated  to  the  depths, 
"where  are  you  going?  What  are  you  going  to  do? 
You  look  so  strange  —  not  at  all  like  yourself." 

"  I'm  going  to  a  hotel  to-night  —  probably  to  a 
boarding-house  to-morrow,"  said  Mildred.  "  In  a  few 
days  I  shall  begin  to  — "  she  hesitated,  decided  against 
confidence  — "  begin  to  support  myself  at  something  or 
other." 

"  You  must  be  crazy ! "  cried  her  mother.  "  You 
wouldn't  do  anything  —  and  you  couldn't." 

"  Let's  not  discuss  it,  mamma,"  said  the  girl  tran 
quilly. 

The  mother  looked  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  the  sus 
picion  one  lady  cannot  but  have  as  to  the  projects  of 
another  lady  in  such  circumstances. 

"  Mildred,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "  you  must  be  care 
ful.  You'll  find  yourself  involved  in  a  dreadful  scandal. 
I  know  you  wouldn't  do  anything  wrong  no  matter  how 
you  were  driven.  But  — " 

"  I'll  not  do  anything  foolish,  mamma,"  interrupted 
the  girl.  "  You  are  thinking  about  men,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Men  are  always  ready  to  destroy  a  woman,"  said 
her  mother.  "  You  must  be  careful  — " 

Mildred  was  laughing.  "  Oh,  mamma,"  she  cried,  "  do 
be  sensible  and  do  give  me  credit  for  a  little  sense.  I've 

130 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


got  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  a  woman  ought  to  do 
about  men,  and  I  assure  you  I'm  not  going  to  be  foolish. 
And  you  know  a  woman  who  isn't  foolish  can  be  trusted 
where  a  woman  who's  only  protected  by  her  principles 
would  yield  to  the  first  temptation  —  or  hunt  round  for 
a  temptation." 

"  But  you  simply  can't  go  to  New  York  and  live 
there  all  alone  —  and  with  nothing !  " 

"  Can  I  stay  here  —  for  more  than  a  few  days  ?  " 

"  But  maybe,  after  a  few  days  — "  stammered  her 
mother. 

"  You  see,  I've  got  to  begin,"  said  Mildred.  "  So 
why  delay?  I'd  gain  nothing.  I'd  simply  start  Hang 
ing  Rock  to  gossiping  —  and  start  Mr.  Presbury  to 
acting  like  a  fiend  again." 

Her  mother  refused  to  be  convinced  —  was  the  firmer, 
perhaps,  because  she  saw  that  Mildred  was  unshakable 
in  her  resolve  to  leave  forthwith  —  the  obviously  sensible 
and  less  troublesome  course.  They  employed  the  rest 
of  Mildred's  three  hours'  stop  in  arguing  —  when  Mil 
dred  was  not  raging  against  the  little  general.  Her 
mother  was  more  than  willing  to  assist  her  in  this  de 
nunciation,  but  Mildred  preferred  to  do  it  all  herself. 
She  had  —  perhaps  by  unconsciously  absorbed  training 
from  her  lawyer  father  —  an  unusual  degree  of  ability 
to  see  both  sides  of  a  question.  When  she  assailed  her 
husband,  she  saw  only  her  own  side ;  but  somehow  when 
her  mother  railed  and  raved,  she  began  to  see  another 
side  —  and  the  sight  was  not  agreeable.  She  wished 
to  feel  that  her  husband  was  altogether  in  the  wrong; 
she  did  not  wish  to  have  intruded  upon  her  such  facts 

131 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


as  that  she  had  sold  herself  to  him  —  quite  in  the  cus 
tomary  way  of  ladies,  but  nevertheless  quite  shamelessly 
—  or  that  in  strict  justice  she  had  done  nothing  for  him 
to  entitle  her  to  a  liberal  money  allowance  or  any  allow 
ance  at  all. 

On  the  train,  going  back  to  New  York,  she  admitted 
to  herself  that  the  repulsive  little  general  had  held 
strictly  to  the  terms  of  the  bargain  — "  but  only  a  devil 
and  one  with  not  a  single  gentlemanly  instinct  would 
insist  on  such  a  bargain."  It  took  away  much  of  the 
shame,  and  all  of  the  sting,  of  despising  herself  to  feel 
that  she  was  looking  still  lower  when  she  turned  to 
despising  him. 

To  edge  out  the  little  general  she  began  to  think  of 
her  mother,  but  as  she  passed  in  review  what  her  mother 
had  said  and  how  she  had  said  it  she  saw  that  for  all 
the  protests  and  arguings  her  mother  was  more  than 
resigned  to  her  departure.  Mildred  felt  no  bitterness; 
ever  since  she  could  remember  her  mother  had  been  a 
shifter  of  responsibility.  Still,  to  stare  into  the  face 
of  so  disagreeable  a  fact  as  that  one  had  no  place 
on  earth  to  go  to,  no  one  on  earth  to  turn  to,  not  even 
one's  own  mother  —  to  stare  on  at  that  grimacing  ugli 
ness  did  not  tend  to  cheerfulness.  Mildred  tried  to 
think  of  the  future  —  but  how  could  she  think  of  some 
thing  that  was  nothing?  She  knew  that  she  would  go 
on,  somehow,  in  some  direction,  but  by  no  effort  of 
her  imagination  could  she  picture  it.  She  was  so  im 
pressed  by  the  necessity  of  considering  the  future  that, 
to  rouse  herself,  she  tried  to  frighten  herself  with  pic 
tures  of  poverty  and  misery,  of  herself  a  derelict  in  the 

132 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


vast  and  cold  desert  of  New  York  —  perhaps  in  rags, 
hungry,  ill,  but  all  in  vain.  She  did  not  believe  it. 
Always  she  had  had  plenty  to  wear  and  to  eat,  and 
comfortable  surroundings.  She  could  no  more  think 
of  herself  as  without  those  things  than  a  living  person 
can  imagine  himself  dead. 

"  I'm  a  fool,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I'm  certain  to 
get  into  all  sorts  of  trouble.  How  can  it  be  otherwise, 
when  I've  no  money,  no  friends,  no  experience,  no  way 
of  making  a  living  —  no  honest  way  —  perhaps  no  way 
of  the  other  kind,  either?  "  There  are  many  women 
who  ecstasize  their  easily  tickled  vanities  by  fancying 
that  if  they  were  so  disposed  they  need  only  flutter  an 
eyelid  to  have  men  by  the  legion  striving  for  their  favors, 
each  man  with  a  bag  of  gold.  Mildred,  inexperienced 
as  she  was,  had  no  such  delusions.  Her  mind  happened 
not  to  be  of  that  chastely  licentious  caste  which  contin 
ually  revolves  and  fantastically  exaggerates  the  things 
of  the  body. 

She  could  not  understand  her  own  indifference  about 
the  future.  She  did  not  realize  that  it  was  wholly  due 
to  Stanley  Baird's  offer.  She  was  imagining  she  was 
regarding  that  offer  as  something  she  might  possibly 
consider,  but  probably  would  not.  She  did  not  know 
that  her  soul  had  seized  upon  it,  had  enfolded  it  and 
would  on  no  account  let  it  go.  It  is  the  habit  of  our 
secret  selves  thus  to  make  decisions  and  await  their  own 
good  time  for  making  us  acquainted  with  them. 

With  her  bag  on  the  seat  beside  her  she  set  out  to 
find  a  temporary  lodging.  Not  until  several  hotels  had 
refused  her  admittance  on  the  pretext  that  they  were 

133 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  full  up  "  did  she  realize  that  a  young  woman  alone  is 
an  object  of  suspicion  in  New  York.  When  a  fourth 
room-clerk  expressed  his  polite  regrets  she  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eye  and  said: 

"  I  understand.  But  I  can't  sleep  in  the  street.  You 
must  tell  me  where  I  can  go." 

"  Well,  there's  the  Ripon  over  in  Seventh  Avenue," 
said  he. 

"  Is  it  respectable  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Oh,  it's  very  clean  and  comfortable  there,"  said  he. 
"  They'll  treat  you  right." 

"  Is  it  respectable  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Well,  now,  it  doesn't  look  queer,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  replied  he.  "  You'll  do  very  nicely  there.  You 
can  be  just  as  quiet  as  you  want." 

She  saw  that  hotel  New  York  would  not  believe  her 
respectable.  So  to  the  Ripon  she  went,  and  was  admit 
ted  without  discussion.  As  the  last  respectable  clerk 
had  said,  it  did  not  look  queer.  But  it  felt  queer;  she 
resolved  that  she  wrould  go  into  a  boarding-house  the 
very  next  day. 

Here  again  what  seemed  simple  proved  difficult.  No 
respectable  boarding-house  would  have  Miss  Mary 
Stevens.  She  was  confident  that  nothing  in  her  dress 
or  manner  hinted  mystery.  Yet  those  sharp-eyed  land 
ladies  seemed  to  know  at  once  that  there  was  something 
peculiar  about  her.  Most  of  them  became  rude  the  in 
stant  they  set  eyes  upon  her.  A  few  —  of  the  obviously 
less  prosperous  class  —  talked  with  her,  seemed  to  be 
listening  for  something  which  her  failing  to  say  decided 
them  upon  all  but  ordering  her  out  of  the  house.  She, 

134 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


hindered  by  her  innocence,  was  slow  in  realizing  that 
she  could  not  hope  for  admission  to  any  select  respect 
able  circle,  even  of  high-class  salesladies  and  clerks, 
unless  she  gave  a  free  and  clear  account  of  herself  — 
whence  she  had  come,  what  she  was  doing,  how  she  got 
her  money. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  second  day's  wearisome  and 
humiliating  search  she  found  a  house  that  would  admit 
her.  It  was  a  pretentious,  well- furnished  big  house  in 
Madison  Avenue.  The  price  —  thirty-five  dollars  a 
week  for  board,  a  bedroom  with  a  folding  bed  in  an 
alcove,  and  a  bath,  was  more  than  double  what  she  had 
counted  on  paying,  but  she  discovered  that  decent  and 
clean  lodgings  and  food  fit  to  eat  were  not  to  be  had 
for  less.  "  And  I  simply  can't  live  pig-fashion,"  said 
she.  "  I'd  be  so  depressed  that  I  could  do  nothing.  I 
can't  live  like  a  wild  animal,  and  I  won't."  She  had 
some  vague  notion  —  foreboding  —  that  this  was  not 
the  proper  spirit  with  which  to  face  life.  "  I  suppose 
I'm  horribly  foolish,"  reflected  she,  "  but  if  I  must  go 
down,  I'll  go  down  with  my  colors  flying."  She  did 
not  know  precisely  what  that  phrase  meant,  but  it 
sounded  fine  and  brave  and  heartened  her  to  take  the 
expensive  lodgings. 

The  landlady  was  a  Mrs.  Belloc.  Mildred  had  not 
talked  with  her  twenty  minutes  before  she  had  a  feeling 
that  this  name  was  assumed.  The  evening  of  her  first 
day  in  the  house  she  learned  that  her  guess  was  correct 
—  learned  it  from  the  landlady  herself.  After  dinner 
Mrs.  Belloc  came  into  her  room  to  cheer  her  up,  to  find 
out  about  her  and  to  tell  her  about  herself. 

135 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Now  that  you've  come,"  said  she,  "  the  house  is 
full  up  —  except  some  little  rooms  at  the  top  that  I'd 
as  lief  not  fill.  The  probabilities  are  that  any  ladies 
who  would  take  them  wouldn't  be  refined  enough  to  suit 
those  I  have.  There  are  six?  not  counting  me,  every 
one  with  a  bath  and  two  with  private  parlors.  And  as 
they're  all  handsome,  sensible  women,  ladylike  and 
steady,  I  think  the  prospects  are  that  they'll  pay 
promptly  and  that  I  won't  have  any  trouble." 

Mildred  reflected  upon  this  curious  statement.  It 
sounded  innocent  enough,  yet  what  a  peculiar  way  to 
put  a  simple  fact. 

"  Of  course  it's  none  of  my  business  how  people  live 
as  long  as  they  keep  up  the  respectabilities,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Belloc.  "  It  don't  do  to  inquire  into  people  in 
New  York.  Most  of  'em  come  here  because  they  want 
to  live  as  they  please." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Mildred  a  little  nervously,  for  she 
suspected  her  landlady  of  hitting  at  her,  and  wondered 
if  she  had  come  to  cross-examine  her  and,  if  the  results 
were  not  satisfactory,  to  put  her  into  the  street. 

"  I  know  /  came  for  that  reason,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Belloc.  "  I  was  a  school-teacher  up  in  New  England 
until  about  two  years  ago.  Did  you  ever  teach 
school?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mildred.  "  And  I  don't  think  I  ever 
shall.  I  don't  know  enough." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  A  teacher  doesn't  need  to  know 
much.  The  w&ges  are  so  poor  —  at  least  up  in  New 
England  —  that  they  don't  expect  you  to  know  any 
thing.  It's  all  in  the  books.  I  left  because  I  couldn't 

136 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


endure  the  life.     Lord!  how  dull  those  little  towns  are! 
Ever  live  in  a  little  town  ?  " 

"  All  my  life,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Well,  you'll  never  go  back." 

"  I  hope  not." 

"You  won't.  Why  should  you?  A  sensible  woman 
with  looks  —  especially  if  she  knows  how  to  carry  her 
clothes  —  can  stay  in  New  York  as  long  as  she  pleases, 
and  live  off  the  fat  of  the  land." 

"  That's  good  news,"  said  Mildred.  She  began  to 
like  the  landlady  —  not  for  what  she  said,  but  for  the 
free  and  frank  and  friendly  way  of  the  saying  —  a 
human  way,  a  comradely  way,  a  live-and-let-live  way. 

"  I  didn't  escape  from  New  England  without  a  strug 
gle,"  continued  Mrs.  Belloc,  who  was  plainly  showing 
that  she  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  "  Mary  Stevens." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  hard  to  save  the  money  out  of 
your  salary,"  said  Mildred. 

Mrs.  Belloc  laughed.  She  was  about  thirty-five  years 
old,  though  her  eyes  and  her  figure  were  younger  than 
that.  Her  mouth  was  pleasant  enough,  but  had  lost 
some  of  its  freshness.  "  Save  money ! "  cried  she. 
"  I'd  never  have  succeeded  that  way.  I'd  be  there  yet. 
I  had  never  married  —  had  two  or  three  chances,  but 
all  from  poor  sticks  looking  for  someone  to  support 
them.  I  saw  myself  getting  old.  I  was  looking  years 
older  than  I  do  now.  Talk  about  sea  air  for  freshening  a 
woman  up  —  it  isn't  in  it  with  the  air  of  New  York. 
Here's  the  town  where  women  stay  young.  If  I  had 
come  here  five  years  ago  I  could  almost  try  for  the  squab 
class." 

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THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Squab  class  ?  "  queried  Mildred. 

"  Yes,  squabs.  Don't  you  see  them  around  every 
where? —  the  women  dressed  like  girls  of  sixteen  to 
eighteen  —  and  some  of  them  are  that,  and  younger. 
They  go  hopping  and  laughing  about  —  and  they  seem 
to  please  the  men  and  to  have  no  end  of  a  good  time. 
Especially  the  oldish  men.  Oh,  yes,  you  know  a  squab 
on  sight  —  tight  skirt,  low  shoes  and  silk  stockings, 
cute  pretty  face,  always  laughing,  hat  set  on  rakishly 
and  hair  done  to  match,  and  always  a  big  purse  or 
bag  —  with  a  yellow-back  or  so  in  it  —  as  a  kind  of  a 
hint,  I  guess." 

Mildred  had  seen  squabs.  "  I've  envied  them  —  in  a 
way,"  said  she.  "  Their  parents  seem  to  let  them  do 
about  as  they  please." 

"  Their  parents  don't  know  —  or  don't  care.  Some 
times  it's  one,  sometimes  the  other.  They  travel  in  two 
sets.  One  is  where  they  meet  young  fellows  of  their 
own  class  —  the  kind  they'll  probably  marry,  unless 
they  happen  to  draw  the  capital  prize.  The  other  set 
they  travel  in  —  well,  it's  the  older  men  they  meet  round 
the  swell  hotels  and  so  on  —  the  yellow-back  men." 

"  How  queer !  "  exclaimed  Mildred,  before  whose  eyes 
a  new  world  was  opening.  "  But  how  do  they  —  these 
—  squabs  —  account  for  the  money  ?  " 

"  How  do  a  thousand  and  one  women  in  this  funny 
town  account  at  home  for  money  and  things  ?  "  retorted 
Mrs.  Belloc.  "  Nothing's  easier.  For  instance,  often 
these  squabs  do  —  or  pretend  to  do  —  a  little  something 
in  the  way  of  work  —  a  little  canvassing  or  artists' 
model  or  anything  you  please.  That  helps  them  to 

138 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


explain  at  home  —  and  also  to  make  each  of  the  yellow 
back  men  think  he's  the  only  one  and  that  he's  being 
almost  loved  for  himself  alone." 

Mrs.  Belloc  laughed.  Mildred  was  too  astonished 
to  laugh,  and  too  interested  —  and  too  startled  or 
shocked. 

"  But  I  was  telling  you  how  I  got  down  here,"  con 
tinued  the  landlady.  "  Up  in  my  town  there  was  an 
old  man  —  about  seventy-five  —  close  as  the  bark  on 
a  tree,  and  ugly  and  mean."  She  paused  to  draw  a 
long  breath  and  to  shake  her  head  angrily  yet  tri 
umphantly  at  some  figure  her  fancy  conjured  up. 
"  Oh,  he  was  a  pup !  —  and  is !  Well,  anyhow,  I  de 
cided  that  I'd  marry  him.  So  I  wrote  home  for  fifty 
dollars.  I  borrowed  another  fifty  here  and  there.  I 
had  seventy-five  saved  up  against  sickness.  I  went  up 
to  Boston  and  laid  it  all  out  in  underclothes  and  house 
things  —  not  showy  but  fine  and  good  to  look  at.  Then 
one  day,  when  the  weather  was  fine  and  I  knew  the  old 
man  would  be  out  in  his  buggy  driving  round  —  I 
dressed  myself  up  to  beat  the  band.  I  took  hours  to 
it  —  scrubbing,  powdering,  sacheting,  perfuming, 
fixing  the  hair,  fixing  my  finger-nails,  fixing  up  my  feet, 
polishing  every  nail  and  making  them  look  better  than 
most  hands." 

Mildred  was  so  interested  that  she  was  excited.  What 
strange  freak  was  coming? 

"  You  never  could  guess,"  pursued  Mrs.  Belloc,  com 
placently.  "  I  took  my  sunshade  and  went  out,  all  got 
up  to  kill.  And  I  walked  along  the  road  until  I  saw 
the  old  man's  buggy  coming  with  him  in  it.  Then  I 

139 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


gave  my  ankle  a  frightful  wrench.  My!  How  it 
hurt!" 

"  What  a  pity ! "  said  Mildred  sympathetically* 
"  What  a  shame !  " 

"A  pity?  A  shame?"  cried  Mrs.  Belloc,  laughing, 
"  Why,  my  dear,  I  did  it  a-purpose." 

"  On  purpose !  "  exclaimed  Mildred. 

"  Certainly.  That  was  my  game.  I  screamed  out 
with  pain  —  and  the  scream  was  no  fake,  I  can  tell 
you.  And  I  fell  down  by  the  roadside  on  a  nice  grassy 
spot  where  no  dust  would  get  on  me.  Well,  up  comes 
the  old  skinflint  in  his  buggy.  He  climbed  down  and 
helped  me  get  off  my  slipper  and  stocking.  I  knew 
I  had  him  the  minute  I  saw  his  old  face  looking  at  that 
foot  I  had  fixed  up  so  beautifully." 

"  How  did  you  ever  think  of  it  ?  "  exclaimed  Mildred, 

"  Go  and  teach  school  for  ten  years  in  a  dull  little 
town,  my  dear  —  and  look  in  the  glass  every  day  and 
see  your  youth  fading  away  —  and  you'll  think  of  most 
anything.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  the  old 
man  took  me  in  the  buggy  to  his  house  where  he  lived 
with  his  deaf,  half -blind  old  widowed  daughter.  I  had 
to  stay  there  three  weeks.  I  married  him  the  fourth 
week.  And  just  two  months  to  a  day  from  the  after 
noon  I  sprained  my  ankle,  he  gave  me  fifty  dollars  a 
week  —  all  signed  and  sealed  by  a  lawyer  —  to  go  away 
and  leave  him  alone.  I  might  have  stood  out  for  more, 
but  I  was  too  anxious  to  get  to  New  York.  And  here 
I  am ! "  She  gazed  about  the  well-furnished  room, 
typical  of  that  almost  luxurious  house,  with  an  air  of 
triumphant  satisfaction.  Said  she :  "  I've  no  patience 

140 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


with  a  woman  who  says  she  can't  get  on.  Where's  her 
brains  ?  " 

Mildred  was  silent.  Perhaps  it  was  a  feeling  of  what 
was  hazily  in  the  younger  woman's  mind  and  a  desire 
to  answer  it  that  led  Mrs.  Belloc  to  say  further:  "  I 
suppose  there's  some  that  would  criticize  my  way  of 
getting  there.  But  I  want  to  know,  don't  all  women 
get  there  by  working  men?  Only  most  of  them  are  so 
stupid  that  they  have  to  go  on  living  with  the  man. 
I  think  it's  low  to  live  with  a  man  you  hate." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  criticizing  anybody,"  said  Mildred. 

"I  didn't  think  you  were,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  If 
I  hadn't  seen  you  weren't  that  kind,  I'd  not  have  been 
so  confidential.  Not  that  I'm  secretive  with  anybody, 
I  say  and  do  what  I  please.  Anyone  who  doesn't  like 
my  way  or  me  can  take  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
I  didn't  come  to  New  York  to  go  in  society.  I  came 
here  to  live" 

Mildred  looked  at  her  admiringly.  There  were 
things  about  Mrs.  Belloc  that  she  did  not  admire ;  other 
things  —  suspected  rather  than  known  things  —  that 
she  knew  she  would  shrink  from,  but  she  heartily  ad 
mired  and  profoundly  envied  her  utter  indifference  to 
the  opinion  of  others,  her  fine  independent  way  of 
walking  her  own  path  at  her  own  gait. 

"  I  took  this  boarding-house,"  Mrs.  Belloc  went  on, 
"  because  I  didn't  want  to  be  lonesome.  I  don't  like 
all  —  or  even  most  of  —  the  ladies  that  live  here.  But 
they're  all  amusing  to  talk  with  —  and  don't  put  on 
airs  except  with  their  men  friends.  And  one  or  two 
are  the  real  thing  —  good-hearted,  fond  of  a  j  oke,  with- 

141 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


out  any  meanness.  I  tell  you,  New  York  is  a  mighty 
fine  place  if  you  get  *  in  right.'  Of  course,  if  you 
don't,  it's  h-e-1-1."  (Mrs.  Belloc  took  off  its  unrefined 
edge  by  spelling  it.)  "But  what  place  isn't?"  she 
added. 

"And  your  husband  never  bothers  you?"  inquired 
Mildred.  * 

"  And  never  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  When  he 
dies  I'll  come  into  a  little  more  —  about  a  hundred  and 
fifty  a  week  in  all.  Not  a  fortune,  but  enough  with 
what  the  boarding-house  brings  in.  I'm  a  pretty  fair 
business  woman." 

"  I  should  say  so ! "  exclaimed  Mildred. 

"  You  said  you  were  Miss  Stevens,  didn't  you?  "  said 
Mrs.  Belloc  —  and  Mildred  knew  that  her  turn  had 
come. 

"  Yes,"  replied  she.  "  But  I  am  also  a  married 
woman."  She  hesitated,  reddened.  "  I  didn't  give  you 
my  married  name." 

"  That's  your  own  business,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc  in  her 
easiest  manner.  "  My  right  name  isn't  Belloc,  either. 
But  I've  dropped  that  other  life.  You  needn't  feel  a 
bit  embarrassed  in  this  house.  Some  of  my  boarders 
seem  to  be  married.  All  that  have  regular-appearing 
husbands  say  they  are.  What  do  I  care,  so  long  as 
everything  goes  along  smoothly?  I  don't  get  excited 
about  trifles." 

"  Some  day  perhaps  I'll  tell  you  about  myself,"  said 
Mildred.  "  Just  at  present  I  —  well,  I  seem  not  to 
be  able  to  talk  about  things." 

"  It's  not  a  bad  idea  to  keep  your  mouth  shut,  as 
142 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


long  as  your  affairs  are  unsettled,"  advised  Mrs.  Belloc. 
"  I  can  see  you've  had  little  experience.  But  you'll 
come  out  all  right.  Just  keep  cool,  and  don't  fret 
about  trifles.  And  don't  let  any  man  make  a  fool  of 
you.  That's  where  we  women  get  left.  We're  afraid 
of  men.  We  needn't  be.  We  can  mighty  easily  make 
them  afraid  of  us.  Use  the  soft  hand  till  you  get  him 
well  in  your  grip.  Then  the  firm  hand.  Nothing 
coarse  or  cruel  or  mean.  But  firm  and  self-respecting." 

Mildred  was  tempted  to  take  Mrs.  Belloc  fully  into 
her  confidence  and  get  the  benefit  of  the  advice  of 
shrewdness  and  experience.  So  strong  was  the  temp 
tation,  she  would  have  yielded  to  it  had  Mrs.  Belloc 
asked  a  few  tactful,  penetrating  questions.  But  Mrs. 
Belloc  refrained,  and  Mildred's  timidity  or  delicacy  in 
duced  her  to  postpone.  The  next  day  she  wrote  Stanley 
Baird,  giving  her  address  and  her  name  and  asking  him 
to  call  "  any  afternoon  at  four  or  five."  She  assumed 
that  he  would  come  on  the  following  day,  but  the  letter 
happened  to  reach  him  within  an  hour  of  her  mailing 
it,  and  he  came  that  very  afternoon. 

When  she  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  to  receive 
him,  she  found  him  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
gazing  about  with  a  quizzical  expression.  As  soon  as 
the  greetings  were  over  he  said: 

''  You  must  get  out  of  here,  Mildred.  This  won't 
do." 

"Indeed  I  shan't,"  said  she.  "I've  looked  every 
where,  and  this  is  the  only  comfortable  place  I  could 
find  —  where  the  rates  were  reasonable  and  where  the 
landlady  didn't  have  her  nose  in  everybody's  business." 

143 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  don't  understand,"  said  he.  "  This  is  a  bird 
cage.  Highly  gilded,  but  a  bird-cage." 

She  had  never  heard  the  phrase,  but  she  understood  — 
and  instantly  she  knew  that  he  was  right.  She  colored 
violently,  sat  down  abruptly.  But  in  a  moment  she 
recovered  herself,  and  with  fine  defiance  said: 

"  I  don't  care.  Mrs.  Belloc  is  a  kind-hearted  woman, 
and  it's  as  easy  to  be  respectable  here  as  anywhere." 

"  Sure,"  assented  he.  "  But  you've  got  to  consider 
appearances  to  a  certain  extent.  You  won't  be  able  to 
find  the  right  sort  of  a  boarding-house  —  one  you'd  be 
comfortable  in.  You've  got  to  have  a  flat  of  your 
own." 

"  I  can't  afford  it,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  can't  afford 
this,  even.  But  I  simply  will  not  live  in  a  shabby, 
mussy  way." 

"That's  right!"  cried  Stanley.  "You  can't  do 
proper  work  in  poor  surroundings.  Some  women 
could,  but  not  your  sort.  But  don't  worry.  I'm  going 
to  see  you  through.  I'll  find  a  place  —  right  away. 
You  want  to  start  in  at  once,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I've  got  to,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Then  leave  it  all  to  me." 

"'But  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

"  Sing,  if  you  can.  If  not,  then  act.  We'll  have 
you  on  the  stage  within  a  year  or  so.  I'm  sure  of  it. 
And  I'll  get  my  money  back,  with  interest." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  accept  it,"  said  Mildred  very 
feebly. 

"  You've  got  to,"  said  Stanley.  "  What  alternative 
is  there?  None.  So  let's  bother  no  more  about  it. 

144 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


I'll  consult  with  those  who  know,  find  out  what  the  thing 
costs,  and  arrange  everything.  You're  as  helpless  as  a 
baby,  and  you  know  it." 

Yes,  Mildred  knew  it. 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  amused  smile.  "  Come, 
out  with  it !  "  he  cried.  "  You've  got  something  on 
your  mind.  Let's  get  everything  straight  —  and  keep 
it  that  way." 

Mildred  hung  her  head. 

"  You're  uneasy  because  I,  a  man,  am  doing  this  for 
you,  a  young  woman?  Is  that  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  confessed. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  crossed  his  legs,  and 
spoke  in  a  brisk,  businesslike  way.  "  In  the  first  place, 
it's  got  to  be  done,  hasn't  it?  And  someone  has  got 
to  do  it?  And  there  is  no  one  offering  but  me?  Am 
I  right?" 

She  nodded. 

66  Then  /'ve  got  to  do  it,  and  you've  got  to  let  me. 
There's  logic,  if  ever  there  was  logic.  A  Philadelphia 
lawyer  couldn't  knock  a  hole  in  it.  You  trust  me,  don't 
you?" 

She  was  silent. 

"  You  don't  trust  me,  then,"  said  he  cheerfully. 
"  Well,  perhaps  you're  right.  But  you  trust  yourself, 
don't  you?  " 

She  moved  restlessly,  but  remained  silent. 

:<  You  are  afraid  I  might  put  you  in  a  difficult  posi 
tion?  " 

"  Something  like  that,"  she  admitted,  in  a  low,  em 
barrassed  voice. 

145 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  fear  that  I  expect  some  return  which  you  do 
not  intend  to  give?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"Well,  I  don't,"  said  he  bluntly.  "So  put  your 
mind  at  rest.  Some  day  I'll  tell  you  why  I  am  doing 
this,  but  I  want  you  to  feel  that  I  ask  nothing  of  you 
but  my  money  back  with  interest,  when  you  can  afford 
to  pay." 

"  I  can't  feel  that,"  said  she.  "  You're  putting  me 
in  your  debt  —  so  heavily  that  I'd  feel  I  ought  to  pay 
anything  you  asked.  But  I  couldn't  and  wouldn't 
pay." 

"Unless  you  felt  like  it?"  suggested  he. 

"  It's  honest  for  me  to  warn  you  that  I'm  not  likely 
to  feel  that  way." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  winning  a  woman's  love, 
isn't  there?  "  said  he  jestingly.  It  was  difficult  to  tell 
when  Stanley  Baird  was  jesting  and  when  he  was  in 
earnest. 

"  Is  that  what  you  expect?  "  said  she  gravely. 

"If  I  say  yes?" 

She  lowered  her  eyes  and  laughed  in  an  embarrassed 
way. 

He  was  frankly  amused.  "  You  see,  you  feel  that 
you're  in  my  power.  And  you  are.  So  why  not  make 
the  best  of  it?  "  A  pause,  then  he  said  abruptly  and 
with  a  convincing  manliness,  "  I  think,  Mildred,  you 
can  trust  me  not  to  be  a  beast." 

She  colored  and  looked  at  him  with  quick  contrition. 
"  I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  said  she.  "  Please  forget 
that  I  said  anything.  I'll  take  what  I  must,  and  I'll 

146 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


pay  it  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  And  —  thank  you,  Stan 
ley."  The  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "  If  I  had  anything 
worth  your  taking  I'd  be  glad  to  give  it  to  you.  What 
vain  fools  we  women  are ! " 

"  Aren't  you,  though !  "  laughed  he.  "  And  now  it's 
all  settled  —  until  you're  on  the  stage,  and  free,  and 
the  money's  paid  back  —  with  interest.  I  shall  charge 
you  six  per  cent." 

When  she  first  knew  him  she  had  not  been  in  the  least 
impressed  by  what  now  seemed  to  her  his  finest  and 
rarest  trait,  for,  in  those  days  she  had  been  as  ignorant 
of  the  realities  of  human  nature  as  one  who  has  never 
adventured  his  boat  beyond  the  mouth  of  the  peaceful 
land-locked  harbor  is  ignorant  of  the  open  sea.  But 
in  the  hard  years  she  had  been  learning  —  not  only 
from  Presbury  and  General  Siddall,  but  from  the  cook 
and  the  housemaid,  from  every  creditor,  every  trades 
man,  everyone  whose  attitude  socially  toward  her  had 
been  modified  by  her  changed  fortunes  —  and  whose 
attitude  had  not  been  changed?  Thus,  she  was  now 
able  to  appreciate  —  at  least  in  some  measure  —  Stan 
ley  Baird's  delicacy  and  tact.  No,  not  delicacy  and 
tact,  for  that  implied  effort.  His  ability  to  put  this 
offer  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  accept  without  serious 
embarrassment  arose  from  a  genuine  indifference  to 
money  as  money,  a  habit  of  looking  upon  it  simply 
as  a  means  to  an  end.  He  offered  her  the  money  pre 
cisely  as  he  would  have  offered  her  his  superior  strength 
if  it  had  been  necessary  to  cross  a  too  deep  and  swift 
creek.  She  had  the  sense  that  he  felt  he  was  doing 
something  even  less  notable  than  he  admitted,  and  that 

147 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


he  talked  of  it  as  a  valuable  and  rather  unusual  service 
simply  because  it  was  the  habit  thus  to  regard  such 
matters. 

As  they  talked  on  of  "  the  great  career  "  her  spirits 
went  up  and  up.  It  was  evident  that  he  now  had  a 
new  and  keen  interest  in  life,  that  she  was  doing  him 
a  greater  favor  than  he  was  doing  her.  He  had  always 
had  money,  plenty  of  it,  more  than  he  could  use.  He 
now  had  more  than  ever  —  for,  several  rich  relatives 
had  died  and,  after  the  habit  of  the  rich,  had  left  every 
thing  to  him,  the  one  of  all  the  connections  who  needed 
it  least.  He  had  a  very  human  aversion  to  spending 
money  upon  people  or  things  he  did  not  like.  He 
would  have  fought  to  the  last  court  an  attempt  by  his 
wife  to  get  alimony.  He  had  a  reputation  with  the 
"  charity  gang  "  of  being  stingy  because  he  would  not 
give  them  so  much  as  the  price  of  a  bazaar  ticket. 
Also,  the  impecunious  spongers  at  his  clubs  spread  his 
fame  as  a  "  tight-wad  "  because  he  refused  to  let  them 
"  stick  him  up  "  for  even  a  round  of  drinks.  Where 
many  a  really  stingy  man  yielded  through  weakness 
or  fear  of  public  opinion,  he  stood  firm.  His  one 
notable  surrender  of  any  kind  had  been  his  marriage; 
that  bitter  experience  had  cured  him  of  the  surrender 
ing  habit  for  all  time.  Thenceforth  he  did  absolutely 
and  in  everything  as  he  pleased. 

Mildred  had  heard  that  he  was  close  about  money. 
She  had  all  but  forgotten  it,  because  her  own  experi 
ence  with  him  had  made  such  a  charge  seem  ridiculous. 
She  now  assumed  —  so  far  as  she  thought  about  it  at 
all  —  that  he  was  extremely  generous.  She  did  not 

148 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


realize  what  a  fine  discriminating  generosity  his  was, 
or  how  striking  an  evidence  of  his  belief  in  her  as  well 
as  of  his  liking  for  her. 

As  he  rose  to  go  he  said :  "  You  mustn't  forget  that 
our  arrangement  is  a  secret  between  us.  Neither  of 
us  can  afford  to  have  anyone  know  it." 

"  There  isn't  anyone  in  the  world  who  wouldn't  mis 
understand  it,"  said  she,  without  the  least  feeling  of 
embarrassment. 

"  Just  so,"  said  he.  "  And  I  want  you  to  live  in 
such  a  way  that  I  can  come  to  call.  We  must  arrange 
things  so  that  you  will  take  your  own  name  — " 

"  I  intend  to  use  the  name  Mary  Stevens  in  my 
work,"  she  interrupted. 

"  But  there  mustn't  be  any  concealment,  any  mystery 
to  excite  curiosity  and  scandal — " 

This  time  the  interruption  was  her  expression.  He 
turned  to  see  what  had  startled  her,  and  saw  in  the 
doorway  of  the  drawing-room  the  grotesquely  neat  and 
stylish  figure  of  the  little  general.  Before  either  could 
speak  he  said: 

"  How  d'you  do,  Mr.  Baird  ?  You'll  pardon  me  if 
I  ask  you  to  leave  me  alone  with  my  wife." 

Stanley  met  the  situation  with  perfect  coolness. 
"How  are  you,  General?"  said  he.  "Certainly,  I 
was  just  going."  He  extended  his  hand  to  Mildred, 
said  in  a  correct  tone  of  conventional  friendliness, 
"  Then  you'll  let  me  know  when  you're  settled?  "  He 
bowed,  moved  toward  the  door,  shook  hands  with  the 
general,  and  passed  out,  giving  from  start  to  finish  a 
model  example  of  a  man  of  the  world  extricating  him- 

149 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


self  from  an  impossible  situation  and  leaving  it  the 
better  for  his  having  been  entangled.  To  a  man  of 
Siddall's  incessant  and  clumsy  self-consciousness  such 
unaffected  ease  could  not  but  be  proof  positive  of  Mil 
dred's  innocence  —  unless  he  had  overheard.  And  his 
first  words  convinced  her  that  he  had  not.  Said  he: 

66  So  you  sent  for  your  old  admirer?  " 

"  I  ran  across  him  accidentally,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  I  know,"  said  the  little  general.  "  My  men  picked 
you  up  at  the  pier  and  haven't  lost  sight  of  you  since. 
It's  fortunate  that  I've  kept  myself  informed,  or  I 
might  have  misunderstood  that  chap's  being  here."  A 
queer,  cloudy  look  came  into  his  eyes.  "  I  must  give 
him  a  warning  for  safety's  sake."  He  waved  his  hand 
in  dismissal  of  such  an  unimportant  trifle  as  the  acci 
dental  Baird.  He  went  on,  his  wicked  eyes  bent  coldly 
and  dully  upon  her :  "  Do  you  know  what  kind  of  a 
house  this  is  ?  " 

"  Stanley  Baird  urged  me  to  leave,"  replied  she. 
"  But  I  shall  stay  until  I  find  a  better  —  and  that's  not 
easy." 

"  Yes,  my  men  have  reported  to  me  on  the  difficul 
ties  you've  had.  It  was  certainly  fortunate  for  you 
that  I  had  them  look  after  you.  Otherwise  I'd  never 
have  understood  your  landing  in  this  sort  of  a  house. 
You  are  ready  to  come  with  me?  " 

"  Your  secretary  explained  that  if  I  left  the  hotel 
it  was  the  end." 

"  He  told  you  that  by  my  orders." 

"  So  he  explained,"  said  Mildred.  She  seated  herself, 
overcome  by  a  sudden  lassitude  that  was  accompanied 

150 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


not  by  fear,  but  by  indifference.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ? 
I  am  willing  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

The  little  general,  about  to  sit,  was  so  astonished 
that  he  straightened  and  stiffened  himself.  "  In  con 
senting  to  overlook  your  conduct  and  take  you  back 
I  have  gone  farther  than  I  ever  intended.  I  have  taken 
into  consideration  your  youth  and  inexperience." 

"  But  I  am  not  going  back,"  said  Mildred. 

The  little  general  slowly  seated  himself.  "  You  have 
less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  left,"  said  he. 

"  Really  ?     Your  spies  know  better  than  I." 

"  I  have  seen  Presbury.  He  assures  me  that  in  no 
circumstances  will  he  and  your  mother  take  you  back." 

"  They  will  not  have  the  chance  to  refuse,"  said 
Mildred. 

"  As  for  your  brother  — " 

"  I  have  no  brother,"  said  she  coldly. 

"  Then  you  are  coming  back  with  me." 

"  No,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  should  " —  she  cast  about 
for  an  impressive  alternative  — "  I  should  stay  on  here, 
rather." 

The  little  general  —  his  neat  varnished  leather  and 
be-spatted  shoes  just  touched  the  floor  —  examined  his 
highly  polished  top-hat  at  several  angles.  Finally  he 
said :  "  You  need  not  fear  that  your  misconduct  will 
be  remembered  against  you.  I  shall  treat  you  in  every 
way  as  my  wife.  I  shall  assume  that  your  —  your 
flight  was  an  impulse  that  you  regret." 

"  I  shan't  go  back,"  said  Mildred.  "  Nothing  you 
could  offer  would  change  me." 

"  I  cannot  make  any  immediate  concession  on  the  — 
151 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  matter  that  caused  you  to  go,"  pursued  he,  as  if 
she  had  not  spoken,  "  but  if  I  see  that  you  have  relia 
bility  and  good  sense,  I'll  agree  to  give  you  an  allow 
ance  later." 

Mildred  eyed  him  curiously.  "  Why  are  you  making 
these  offers,  these  concessions?  "  she  said.  "You  think 
everyone  in  the  world  is  a  fool  except  yourself.  You're 
greatly  deceived.  I  know  that  you  don't  mean  what 
you've  been  saying.  I  know  that  if  you  got  me  in 
your  power  again,  you  would  do  something  frightful. 
I've  seen  through  that  mask  you  wear.  I  know  the 
kind  of  man  you  are." 

"  If  you  know  that,"  said  the  general  jn  his  even 
slow  way,  monotonous,  almost  lifeless,  "  you  know  you'd 
better  come  with  me  than  stand  out  against  me." 

She  did  not  let  him  see  how  this  struck  terror  into 
her.  She  said :  "  No  matter  what  you  might  do  to  me, 
when  I'm  away  from  you,  it  would  be  less  than  you'd 
do  with  me  under  your  roof.  At  any  rate,  it'd  seem 
less." 

The  general  reflected,  decided  to  change  to  another 
point :  "  You  made  a  bargain  with  me.  You've  broken 
it.  I  never  let  anyone  break  a  bargain  with  me  with 
out  making  them  regret  it.  I'm  giving  you  a  chance 
to  keep  your  bargain." 

She  was  tempted  to  discuss,  but  she  could  not  find 
the  words,  or  the  strength.  Besides,  how  futile  to  dis 
cuss  with  such  a  man.  She  sank  back  in  her  chair 
wearily.  "  I  shall  never  go  back,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her,  his  face  devoid  of  expression,  but 
she  had  a  sense  of  malignance  unutterable  eying  her 

152 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


from  behind  a  screen.  He  said:  "I  see  you've  misun 
derstood  my  generosity.  You  think  I'm  weak  where 
you  are  concerned  because  I've  come  to  you  instead  of 
doing  as  I  said  and  making  you  come  to  me."  He  rose. 
"  Well,  my  offer  to  you  is  closed.  And  once  more  I 
say,  you  will  come  to  me  and  ask  to  be  taken  back.  I 
may  or  may  not  take  you  back.  It  depends  on  how 
I'll  feel  at  that  time." 

Slowly,  with  his  ludicrously  pompous  strut,  he 
marched  to  the  drawing-room  door.  She  had  not  felt 
like  smiling,  but  if  there  had  been  any  such  inclination 
it  would  have  fled  before  the  countenance  that  turned 
upon  her  at  the  threshold.  It  was  the  lean,  little  face 
with  the  funny  toupee  and  needle-like  mustache  and 
imperial,  but  behind  it  lay  a  personah'ty  like  the  dull, 
cold,  yellow  eyes  of  the  devil-fish  ambushed  in  the  hazy 
mass  of  dun-colored  formlessness  of  collapsed  body 
and  tentacles.  He  said: 

"  You'd  best  be  careful  how  you  conduct  yourself. 
You'll  be  under  constant  observation.  And  any  friends 
you  make  —  they'd  do  well  to  avoid  you." 

He  was  gone.  She  sat  without  the  power  of  motion, 
without  the  power  of  thought.  After  a  time  —  per 
haps  long,  perhaps  short,  she  did  not  know  —  Mrs. 
Belloc  came  in  and  entered  upon  a  voluble  apology  for 
the  maid's  having  shown  "  the  little  gentleman  "  into 
the  drawing-room  when  another  was  already  there. 
"  That  maid's  as  green  as  spring  corn,"  said  she. 
"  Such  a  thing  never  happened  in  my  house  before. 
And  it'll  never  happen  again.  I  do  hope  it  didn't  cause 
trouble." 

153 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  It  was  my  husband,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  had  to  see 
him  some  time." 

"  He's  certainly  a  very  elegant  little  gentleman," 
said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  I  rather  like  small  men,  myself." 

Mildred  gazed  at  her  vaguely  and  said,  "  Tell  me  — 
a  rich  man,  a  very  rich  man  —  if  he  hates  anyone,  can 
he  make  trouble?  " 

"  Money  can  do  anything  in  this  town,"  replied  Mrs. 
Belloc.  "  But  usually  rich  men  are  timid  and  stingy. 
If  they  weren't,  they'd  make  us  all  cringe.  As  it  is, 
I've  heard  some  awful  stories  of  how  men  and  women 
who've  got  some  powerful  person  down  on  them  have 
been  hounded." 

Mildred  turned  deathly  sick.  "I  think  I'll  go  to 
my  room,"  she  said,  rising  uncertainly  and  forcing 
herself  toward  the  door. 

Mrs.  Belloc's  curiosity  could  not  restrain  itself. 
"  You're  leaving?  "  she  asked.  "  You're  going  back 
to  your  husband?  " 

She  was  startled  when  the  girl  abruptly  turned  on 
her  and  cried  with  flashing  eyes  and  voice  strong  and 
vibrant  with  passion :  "  Never !  Never !  No  matter 
what  comes  —  never!  " 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  that  night  she  hid  in  her 
room  and  made  no  effort  to  resist  the  terror  that  preyed 
upon  her.  Just  as  our  strength  is  often  the  source  of 
weakness,  so  our  weaknesses  often  give  birth  to  strength. 
Her  terror  of  the  little  general,  given  full  swing, 
shrieked  and  grimaced  itself  into  absurdity.  She  was 
ashamed  of  her  orgy,  was  laughing  at  it  as  the  sun 

154 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  intoxicating  air  of  a  typical  New  York  morning 
poured  in  upon  her.  She  accepted  Mrs.  Belloc's  invi 
tation  to  take  a  turn  through  the  park  and  up  River 
side  Drive  in  a  taxicab,  came  back  restored  to  her 
normal  state  of  blind  confidence  in  the  future.  About 
noon  Stanley  Baird  telephoned. 

"  We  must  not  see  each  other  again  for  some  time," 
said  he.  "  I  rather  suspect  that  you-know-who  may  be 
having  you  watched." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  she.     "  He  warned  me." 

"  Don't  let  that  disturb  you,"  pursued  Stanley.  "  A 
man  —  a  singing  teacher  —  his  name's  Eugene  Jen 
nings  —  will  call  on  you  this  afternoon  at  three.  Do 
exactly  as  he  suggests.  Let  him  do  all  the  talking." 

She  had  intended  to  tell  Baird  frankly  that  she 
thought,  indeed  knew,  that  it  was  highly  dangerous  for 
him  to'  enter  into  her  affairs  in  any  way,  and  to  urge 
him  to  draw  off.  She  felt  that  it  was  only  fair  to  act 
so  toward  one  who  had  been  unselfishly  generous  to 
her.  But  now  that  the  time  for  speaking  had  come, 
she  found  herself  unable  to  speak.  Only  by  flatly  re 
fusing  to  have  anything  to  do  with  his  project  could 
she  prevail  upon  him.  To  say  less  than  that  she  had 
completely  and  finally  changed  her  mind  would  sound, 
and  would  be,  insincere.  And  that  she  could  not  say. 
She  felt  how  noble  it  would  be  to  say  this,  how  selfish, 
and  weak,  too,  it  was  to  cling  to  him,  possibly  to  in 
volve  him  in  disagreeable  and  even  dangerous  complica 
tions,  but  she  had  no  strength  to  do  what  she  would  have 
denounced  another  as  base  for  not  doing.  Instead  of 
the  lofty  words  that  flow  so  freely  from  the  lips  of  stage 

155 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  fiction  heroines,  instead  of  the  words  that  any  and 
every  reader  of  this  history  would  doubtless  have  pro 
nounced  in  the  same  circumstances,  she  said: 

"  You're  quite  sure  you  want  to  go  on  ?  " 

"Why  not?  "  came  instantly  back  over  the  wire. 

"  He  is  a  very,  very  relentless  man,"  replied  she. 

"  Did  he  try  to  frighten  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  he  succeeded." 

66  You're  not  going  back  on  the  career !  "  exclaimed 
he  excitedly.  "  I'll  come  down  there  and  — " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  she.  "  I  was  simply  giving  you  a 
chance  to  free  yourself."  She  felt  sure  of  him  now. 
She  scrambled  toward  the  heights  of  moral  grandeur. 
"  I  want  you  to  stop.  I've  no  right  to  ask  you  to 
involve  yourself  in  my  misfortunes.  Stanley,  you 
mustn't.  I  can't  allow  it." 

"  Oh,  fudge ! "  laughed  he.  "  Don't  give  me  these 
scares.  Don't  forget  —  Jennings  at  three.  Good-by 
and  good  luck." 

And  he  rang  off  that  she  might  have  no  chance  on 
impulse  to  do  herself  mischief  with  her  generous 
thoughtfulness  for  him.  She  felt  rather  mean,  but  not 
nearly  so  mean  as  she  would  have  felt  had  she  let  the 
opportunity  go  by  with  no  generous  word  said.  "  And 
no  doubt  my  aversion  for  that  little  wretch,"  thought 
she,  "  makes  me  think  him  more  terrible  than  he  is. 
After  all,  what  can  he  do  ?  Watch  me  —  and  discover 
nothing,  because  there'll  be  nothing  to  discover." 

Jennings  came  exactly  at  three  —  came  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  wastes  no  one's  time  and  lets  no  one  waste 
his  time.  He  was  a  youngish  man  of  forty  or  there- 

156 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


abouts,  with  a  long  sharp  nose,  a  large  tight  mouth, 
and  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  looking  restlessly  about  for 
money.  That  they  had  not  looked  in  vain  seemed  to  be 
indicated  by  such  facts  as  that  he  came  in  a  private 
brougham  and  that  he  was  most  carefully  dressed,  ap 
parently  with  the  aid  of  a  valet. 

"  Miss  Stevens,"  he  said  with  an  abrupt  bow,  before 
Mildred  had  a  chance  to  speak,  "  you  have  come  to  New 
York  to  take  singing  lessons  —  to  prepare  yourself  for 
the  stage.  And  you  wish  a  comfortable  place  to  live 
and  to  work."  He  extended  his  gloved  hand,  shook 
hers  frigidly,  dropped  it.  "  We  shall  get  on  —  If  you 
work,  but  only  if  you  work.  I  do  not  waste  myself  upon 
triflers."  He  drew  a  card  from  his  pocket.  "  If  you 
will  go  to  see  the  lady  whose  name  and  address  are 
written  on  this  card,  I  think  you  will  find  the  quarters 
you  are  looking  for." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mildred. 

66  Come  to  me  —  my  address  is  on  the  card,  also  — 
at  half -past  ten  on  Saturday.  We  will  then  lay  out 
your  work." 

"  If  you  find  I  have  a  voice  worth  while,"  Mildred 
ventured. 

"  That,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Jennings  curtly.  "  Un 
til  half -past  ten  on  Saturday,  good  day." 

Again  he  gave  the  abrupt  foreign  bow  and,  while 
Mildred  was  still  struggling  with  her  surprise  and  con 
fusion,  she  saw  him,  through  the  window,  driving 
rapidly  away.  Mrs.  Belloc  came  drifting  through  the 
room;  she  had  the  habit  of  looking  about  whenever 
there  were  new  visitors,  and  in  her  it  was  not  irritating 

157 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


because  her  interest  was  innocent  and  sympathetic. 
Said  Mildred: 

"  Did  you  see  that  man,  Mrs.  Belloc?  " 

"  What  an  extraordinary  nose  he  had,"  replied  she. 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  that,"  said  Mildred.  "  But  it  was 
the  only  thing  I  did  notice.  He  is  a  singing  teacher  — 
Mr.  Jennings." 

"  Eugene  Jennings?  " 

"  Yes,  Eugene." 

"  He's  the  best  known  singing  teacher  in  New  York. 
He  gets  fifteen  dollars  a  half -hour." 

"  Then  I  simply  can't  take  from  him ! "  exclaimed 
Mildred,  before  she  thought.  "That's  frightful!" 

"Isn't  it,  though?"  echoed  Mrs.  Belloc.  "I've 
heard  his  income  is  fifty  thousand  a  year,  what  with 
lessons  and  coaching  and  odds  and  ends.  There's  a  lot 
of  them  that  do  well^  because  so  many  fool  women^with 
nothing  to  do  cultivate  their  voices  —  when  they  can't 
sing  a  little  bit.  But  he  tops  them  all.  I  don't  see 
how  any  teacher  can  put  fifteen  dollars  of  value  into 
half  an  hour.  But  I  suppose  he  does,  or  he  wouldn't 
get  it.  Still,  his  may  be  just  another  case  of  New  York 
nerve.  This  is  the  biggest  bluff  town  in  the  world,  I 
do  believe.  Here,  you  can  get  away  with  anything,  I 
don't  care  what  it  is,  if  only  you  bluff  hard  enough." 

As  there  was  no  reason  for  delay  and  many  reasons 
against  it,  Mildred  went  at  once  to  the  address  on  the 
card  Jennings  had  left.  She  found  Mrs.  Howell 
Brindley  installed  in  a  plain  comfortable  apartment  in 
Fifty-ninth  Street,  overlooking  the  park  and  high 
enough  to  make  the  noise  of  the  traffic  endurable.  A 

158 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Swedish  maid,  prepossessingly  white  and  clean,  ushered 
her  into  the  little  drawing-room,  which  was  furnished 
with  more  simplicity  and  individual  taste  than  is  usual 
anywhere  in  New  York,  cursed  of  the  mania  for  useless 
and  tasteless  showiness.  There  were  no  messy  draperies, 
no  fussy  statuettes,  vases,  gilt  boxes,  and  the  like. 
Mildred  awaited  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Brindley  hope 
fully. 

She  was  not  disappointed.  Presently  in  came  a 
quietly-dressed,  frank-looking  woman  of  a  young  forty 
—  a  woman  who  had  by  no  means  lost  her  physical 
freshness,  but  had  gained  charm  of  another  and  more 
enduring  kind.  As  she  came  forward  with  extended 
but  not  overeager  hand,  she  said: 

"  I  was  expecting  you,  Mrs.  Siddall  —  that  is,  Miss 
Stevens." 

"  Mr.  Jennings  did  not  say  when  I  was  to  come.  If 
I  am  disturbing  you — " 

Mrs.  Brindley  hastened  to  assure  her  that  her  visit 
was  quite  convenient.  "  I  must  have  someone  to  share 
the  expense  of  this  apartment  with  me,  and  I  want  the 
matter  settled.  Mr.  Jennings  has  explained  about  you 
to  me,  and  now  that  I've  seen  you — "  here  she  smiled 
charmingly  — "  I  am  ready  to  say  that  it  is  for  you  to 
say." 

Mildred  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  She  looked  at 
Mrs.  Brindley  with  appeal  in  her  troubled  young 
eyes. 

"  You  no  doubt  wish  to  know  something  about  me," 
said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  My  husband  was  a  composer  — 
a  friend  of  Mr.  Jennings.  He  died  two  years  ago. 

159 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


I  am  here  in  New  York  to  teach  the  piano.  What  the 
lessons  will  bring1,  with  my  small  income,  will  enable  me 
to  live  —  if  I  can  find  someone  to  help  out  at  the  ex 
penses  here.  As  I  understand  it,  you  are  willing  to 
pay  forty  dollars  a  week,  I  to  run  the  house,  pay  all 
the  bills,  and  so  on  —  all,  of  course,  if  you  wish  to  come 
here." 

Mildred  made  a  not  very  successful  attempt  to  con 
ceal  her  embarrassment. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  look  at  the  apartment?  " 
suggested  Mrs.  Brindley. 

"  Thank  you,  yes,"  said  Mildred. 

The  tour  of  the  apartment  —  two  bedrooms,  dining- 
room,  kitchen,  sitting-room,  large  bath-room,  drawing- 
room  —  took  only  a  few  minutes,  but  Mildred  and  Mrs. 
Brindley  contrived  to  become  much  better  acquainted. 
Said  Mildred,  when  they  were  in  the  drawing-room 
again : 

"It's  most  attractive  —  just  what  I  should  like. 
What  —  how  much  did  Mr.  Jennings  say?'* 

"  Forty  dollars  a  week."  She  colored  slightly  and 
spoke  with  the  nervousness  of  one  not  in  the  habit  of 
discussing  money  matters.  "  I  do  not  see  how  I  could 
make  it  less.  That  is  the  fair  share  of  the  — " 

"  Oh,  I  think  that  is  most  reasonable,"  interrupted 
Mildred.  "  And  I  wish  to  come." 

Mrs.  Brindley  gave  an  almost  childlike  sigh  of  relief 
and  smiled  radiantly.  "  Then  it's  settled,"  said  she. 
"  I've  been  so  nervous  about  it."  She  looked  at  Mildred 
with  friendly  understanding.  "  I  think  you  and  I  are 
somewhat  alike  about  practical  things.  You've  not  had 

160 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


much  experience,  either,  have  you?  I  judge  so  from 
the  fact  that  Mr.  Jennings  is  looking  after  everything 
for  you." 

"  I've  had  no  experience  at  all,"  said  Mildred. 
"  That  is  why  I'm  hesitating.  I'm  wondering  if  I  can 
afford  to  pay  so  much." 

Mrs.  Brindley  laughed.  "  Mr.  Jennings  wished  to 
fix  it  at  sixty  a  week^  but  I  insisted  that  forty  was 
enough,"  said  she. 

Mildred  colored  high  with  embarrassment.  How 
much  did  Mrs.  Brindley  know?  —  or  how  little?  She 
stammered :  "  Well,  if  Mr.  Jennings  says  it  is  all  right, 
I'll  come." 

"  You'll  let  me  know  to-morrow  ?  You  can  telephone 
Mr.  Jennings." 

"  Yes,  I'll  let  you  know  to-morrow.  I'm  almost  sure 
I'll  come.  In  fact,  I'm  quite  sure.  And  —  I  think  we 
shall  get  on  well  together." 

"  We  can  help  each  other,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  I 
don't  care  for  anything  in  the  world  but  music." 

"  I  want  to  be  that  way,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  shall  be 
that  way." 

"  It's  the  only  sure  happiness  —  to  care  for  some 
thing,  for  some  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  People 
die,  or  disappoint  one,  or  become  estranged.  But  when 
one  centers  on  some  kind  of  work,  it  gives  pleasure  al 
ways  —  more  and  more  pleasure." 

"  I  am  so  afraid  I  haven't  voice  enough,  or  of  the 
right  kind,"  said  Mildred.  "  Mr.  Jennings  is  going 
to  try  me  on  Saturday.  Really  I've  no  right  to  settle 
anything  until  he  has  given  his  opinion." 

161 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mrs.  Brindley  smiled  with  her  eyes  only,  and  Mildred 
wondered. 

"  If  he  should  say  that  I  wouldn't  do,"  she  went  on, 
"  I'd  not  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"  But  he'll  not  say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  You 
can  sing,  can't  you?  You  have  sung?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Then  you'll  be  accepted  by  him.  And  it  will  take 
him  a  long  time  to  find  out  whether  you'll  do  for  a  pro 
fessional." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  sing  very  badly." 

"  That  will  not  matter.  You'll  sing  better  than  at 
least  half  of  Jennings's  pupils." 

"  Then  he  doesn't  take  only  those  worth  while?  " 

Mrs.  Brindley  looked  amused.  "  How  would  he  live 
if  he  did  that?  It's  a  teacher's  business  to  teach. 
Learning  —  that's  the  pupil's  lookout.  If  teachers 
taught  only  those  who  could  and  would  learn,  how  would 
they  live?" 

"  Then  I'U  not  know  whether  I'll  do !  "  exclaimed  Mil 
dred. 

"  You'll  have  to  find  out  for  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Brindley.  "  No  one  can  tell  you.  Anyone's  opinion 
might  be  wrong.  For  example,  I've  known  Jennings, 
who  is  a  very  good  judge,  to  be  wrong  —  both  ways." 
Hesitatingly:  "Why  not  sing  for  me?  I'd  like  to 
hear." 

"  Would  you  tell  me  what  you  honestly  thought  ?  " 
said  Mildred. 

Mrs.  Brindley  laughingly  shook  her  head. 

Mildred  liked  her  honesty.  "  Then  it'd  be  useless  to 
162 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


sing  for  you,"  said  she.  "  I'm  not  vain  about  my  voice. 
I'd  simply  like  to  make  a  living  by  it,  if  I  could.  I'll 
even  confess  that  there  are  many  things  I  care  for  more 
than  for  music.  Does  that  prove  that  I  can  never  sing 
professionally  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  Mrs.  Brindley  assured  her.  "  It'd  be 
strange  if  a  girl  of  your  age  cared  exclusively  for 
music.  The  passion  comes  with  the  work,  with  progress, 
success.  And  some  of  the  greatest  —  that  is,  the  most 
famous  and  best  paid  —  singers  never  care  much  about 
music,  except  as  a  vanity,  and  never  understand  it.  A 
singer  means  a  person  born  with  a  certain  shape  of 
mouth  and  throat,  a  certain  kind  of  vocal  chords.  The 
rest  may  be  natural  or  acquired.  It's  the  instrument 
that  makes  the  singer,  not  brains  or  temperament." 

"  Do  let  me  sing  for  you,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  think 
it  will  help  me." 

Between  them  they  chose  a  little  French  song  — 
"  Chanson  d'Antonine  " —  and  Mrs.  Brindley  insisted  on 
her  playing  her  own  accompaniment.  "  I  wish  to 
listen,"  said  she,  "  and  I  can't  if  I  play." 

Mildred  was  surprised  at  her  own  freedom  from  nerv 
ousness.  She  sang  neither  better  nor  worse  than  usual 
—  sang  in  the  clear  and  pleasant  soprano  which  she  flat 
tered  herself  was  not  unmusical.  When  she  finished  she 
said: 

"  That's  about  as  I  usually  sing.  What  do  you 
think?" 

Mrs.  Brindley  reflected  before  she  replied :  "  I  be 
lieve  it's  worth  trying.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  keep  on 
trying,  no  matter  what  anyone  said." 

163 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mildred  was  instantly  depressed.  "  You  think  Mr. 
Jennings  may  reject  me?"  she  asked. 

"  I  know  he  will  not/'  replied  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  Not 
as  long1  as  you  can  pay  for  the  lessons.  But  I  was 
thinking  of  the  real  thing  —  of  whether  you  could  win 
out  as  a  singer." 

"  And  you  don't  think  I  can  ?  "  said  Mildred. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  you  can,"  replied  Mrs. 
Brindley.  "A  singer  means  so  much  besides  singing. 
The  singing  is  the  smallest  part  of  it.  You'll  under 
stand  when  you  get  to  work.  I  couldn't  explain  now. 
But  I  can  say  that  you  ought  to  go  ahead." 

Mildred,  who  had  her  share  of  vanity,  had  hoped  for 
some  enthusiasm.  Mrs.  Brindley 's  judicial  tone  was  a 
severe  blow.  She  felt  a  little  resentful,  began  to  cast 
about  for  vanity-consoling  reasons  for  Mrs.  Brindley's 
restraint.  "  She  means  well,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  but 
she's  probably  just  a  tiny  bit  jealous.  She's  not  so 
young  as  she  once  was,  and  she  hasn't  the  faintest  hope 
of  ever  being  anything  more  than  a  piano-teacher." 

Mrs.  Brindley  showed  that  she  had  more  than  an 
inkling  of  Mildred's  frame  of  mind  by  going  on  to  say 
in  a  gentle,  candid  way :  "  I  want  to  help  you.  So 
I  shall  be  careful  not  to  encourage  you  to  believe  too 
much  in  what  you  have.  That  would  prevent  you  from 
getting  what  you  need.  You  must  remember,  you  are 
no  longer  a  drawing-room  singer,  but  a  candidate  for 
the  profession.  That's  a  very  different  thing." 

Mildred  saw  that  she  was  mistaken,  that  Mrs.  Brind 
ley  was  honest  and  frank  and  had  doubtless  told  her  the 
exact  truth.  But  her  vanity  remained  sore.  Never  be- 

164 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


fore  had  anyone  said  any  less  of  her  singing  than  that 
it  was  wonderful,  marvelous,  equal  to  a  great  deal  that 
passed  for  fine  in  grand  opera.  She  had  known 
that  this  was  exaggeration,  but  she  had  not  known  how 
grossly  exaggerated.  Thus,  this  her  first  experience 
of  the  professional  attitude  was  galling.  Only  her  un 
usual  good  sense  saved  her  from  being  angry  with  Mrs. 
Brindley.  And  it  was  that  same  good  sense  that  moved 
her  presently  to  try  to  laugh  at  herself.  With  a  brave 
attempt  to  smile  gayly  she  said: 

"  You  don't  realize  how  you've  taken  me  down.  I 
had  no  idea  I  was  so  conceited  about  my  singing.  I 
can't  truthfully  say  I  like  your  frankness,  but  there's 
a  part  of  me  that's  grateful  to  you  for  it,  and  when  I 
get  over  feeling  hurt,  I'll  be  grateful  through  and 
through." 

Mrs.  Brindley's  face  lighted  up  beautifully.  "  You'll 
do!  "  she  cried.  "  I'm  sure  you'll  do.  I've  been  wait 
ing  and  watching  to  see  how  you  would  take  my  criti 
cism.  That's  the  test  —  how  they  take  criticism.  If 
they  don't  take  it  at  all,  they'll  not  go  very  far,  ne 
matter  how  talented  they  are.  If  they  take  it  as  you've 
taken  it,  there's  hope  —  great  hope.  Now,  I'm  not 
afraid  to  tell  you  that  you  sang  splendidly  for  an 
amateur  —  that  you  surprised  me." 

"Don't  spoil  it  all,"  said  Mildred.  "You  were 
right ;  I  can't  sing." 

"  Not  for  grand  opera,  not  for  comic  opera  even," 
replied  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  But  you  will  sing,  and  sing 
well,  in  one  or  the  other,  if  you  work." 

"You  really  mean  that?"  said  Mildred. 
165 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  If  you  work  intelligently  and  persistently,"  said 
Mrs.  Brindley.  "  That's  a  big  if  —  as  you'll  discover 
in  a  year  or  so." 

"  You'll  see,"  said  Mildred  confidently.  "  Why,  I've 
nothing  else  to  do,  and  no  other  hope." 

Mrs.  Brindley's  smile  had  a  certain  sadness  in  it. 
She  said: 

"  It's  the  biggest  if  in  all  this  world." 


166 


AT  Mrs.  Belloc's  a  telephone  message  from  Jennings 
was  awaiting  her;  he  would  call  at  a  quarter-past  eight 
and  would  detain  Miss  Stevens  only  a  moment.  And 
at  eight  fifteen  exactly  he  rang  the  bell.  This  time 
Mildred  was  prepared ;  she  refused  to  be  disconcerted  by 
his  abrupt  manner  and  by  his  long  sharp  nose  that 
seemed  to  warn  away,  to  threaten  away,  even  to  thrust 
away  any  glance  seeking  to  investigate  the  rest  of  his 
face  or  his  personality.  She  looked  at  him  candidly, 
calmly,  and  seeingly.  Seeingly.  With  eyes  that  saw 
as  they  had  never  seen  before.  Perhaps  from  the  death 
of  her  father,  certainly  from  the  beginning  of  Siddall's 
courtship,  Mildred  had  been  waking  up.  There  is  a 
part  of  our  nature  —  the  active  and  aggressive  part  — 
that  sleeps  all  our  lives  long  or  becomes  atrophied  if 
we  lead  lives  of  ease  and  secure  dependence.  It  is  the 
important  part  of  us,  too  —  the  part  that  determines 
character.  The  thing  that  completed  the  awakening 
of  Mildred  was  her  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Belloc. 
That  positive  and  finely-poised  lady  fascinated  her,  in 
fluenced  her  powerfully  —  gave  her  just  what  she 
needed  at  the  particular  moment.  The  vital  moments 
in  life  are  not  the  crises  over  which  shallow  people 
linger,  but  are  the  moments  where  we  met  and  absorbed 
the  ideas  that  enabled  us  to  weather  these  crises.'  The 

167 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Belloc  was  one  of  those  vital 
moments ;  for,  Mrs.  Belloc's  personality  —  her  look  and 
manner,  what  she  said  and  the  way  she  said  it  —  was  a 
proffer  to  Mildred  of  invaluable  lessons  which  her 
awakening  character  eagerly  absorbed.  She  saw  Jen 
nings  as  he  was.  She  decided  that  he  was  of  common 
origin,  that  his  vanity  was  colossal  and  aquiver  through 
out  with  sensitiveness;  that  he  belonged  to  the  familiar 
type  of  New-Yorker  who  succeeds  by  bluffing.  Also, 
she  saw  or  felt  a  certain  sexlessness  or  indifference  to 
sex  —  and  this  she  later  understood.  Men  whose  occu 
pation  compels  them  constantly  to  deal  with  women  go 
to  one  extreme  or  the  other  —  either  become  acutely 
sensitive  to  women  as  women  or  become  utterly  indiffer 
ent,  unless  their  highly  discriminated  taste  is  appealed 
to  —  which  cannot  happen  often.  Jennings,  teaching 
only  women  because  only  women  spending  money  they 
had  not  earned  and  could  not  earn  would  tolerate 
his  terms  and  his  methods,  had,  as  much  through  ne 
cessity  as  through  inclination,  gone  to  the  extreme  of 
lack  of  interest  in  all  matters  of  sex.  One  look  at  him 
and  the  woman  who  had  come  with  the  idea  of  offering 
herself  in  full  or  part  payment  for  lessons  drooped  in 
instinctive  discouragement, 

Jennings  hastened  to  explain  to  Mildred  that  she  need 
not  hesitate  about  closing  with  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  Your 
lessons  are  arranged  for,"  said  he.  "  There  has  been 
put  in  the  Plaza  Trust  Company  to  your  credit  the  sum 
of  five  thousand  dollars.  This  gives  you  about  a  hun 
dred  dollars  a  week  for  your  board  and  other  personal 
expenses.  If  that  is  not  enough,  you  will  let  me  know. 

168 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


But  I  estimated  that  it  would  be  enough.  I  do  not  think 
it  wise  for  young  women  entering  upon  the  preparation 
for  a  serious  career  to  have  too  much  money." 

"  It  is  more  than  enough,"  murmured  the  girl.  "  I 
know  nothing  about  those  things,  but  it  seems  to  me  — " 

"  You  can  use  as  little  of  it  as  you  like,"  interrupted 
Jennings,  rising. 

Mildred  felt  as  though  she  had  been  caught  and  ex 
posed  in  a  hypocritical  protest.  Jennings  was  holding 
out  something  toward  her.  She  took  it,  and  he  went 
on: 

"  That's  your  check-book.  The  bank  will  send  you 
statements  of  your  account,  and  will  notify  you  when 
any  further  sums  are  added.  Now,  I  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  your  affairs  —  except,  of  course,  the 
artistic  side  —  your  development  as  a  singer.  You've 
not  forgotten  your  appointment?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mildred,  like  a  primary  school-child  be 
fore  a  formidable  teacher. 

"  Be  prompt,  please.  I  make  no  reduction  for  les 
sons  wholly  or  partly  missed.  The  half-hour  I  shall 
assign  to  you  belongs  to  you.  If  you  do  not  use  it, 
that  is  your  affair.  At  first  you  will  probably  be  like 
all  women  —  careless  about  your  appointments,  coming 
with  lessons  unprepared,  telephoning  excuses.  But  if 
you  are  serious  you  will  soon  fall  into  the  routine." 

"  I  shall  try  to  be  regular,"  murmured  Mildred. 

Jennings  apparently  did  not  hear.  "  I'm  on  my  way 
to  the  opera-house,"  said  he.  "  One  of  my  old  pupils 
is  appearing  in  a  new  role,  and  she  is  nervous.  Good 
night." 

169 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Once  more  that  swift,  quiet  exit,  followed  almost  in 
stantaneously  by  the  sound  of  wheels  rolling  away. 
Never  had  she  seen  such  rapidity  of  motion  without  loss 
of  dignity.  "  Yes,  he's  a  fraud,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  but  he's  a  good  one." 

The  idea  of  a  career  had  now  become  less  indefinite. 
It  was  still  without  any  attraction  —  not  because  of  the 
toil  it  involved,  for  that  made  small  impression  upon 
her  who  had  never  worked  and  had  never  seen  anyone 
work,  but  because  a  career  meant  cutting  herself  off 
from  everything  she  had  been  brought  up  to  regard  as 
fit  and  proper  for  a  lady.  She  was  ashamed  of  this; 
she  did  not  admit  its  existence  even  to  herself,  and  in 
her  talks  with  Baird  about  the  career  she  had  professed 
exactly  the  opposite  view.  Yet  there  it  was  —  nor  need 
she  have  been  ashamed  of  a  feeling  that  is  instilled  into 
women  of  her  class  from  babyhood  as  part  of  their 
ladylike  education.  The  career  had  not  become  definite. 
She  could  not  imagine  herself  out  on  a  stage  in  some 
sort  of  a  costume,  with  a  painted  face,  singing  before 
an  audience.  Still,  the  career  was  less  indefinite  than 
when  it  had  no  existence  beyond  Stanley  Baird's  enthusi 
asm  and  her  own  whipped-up  pretense  of  enthusiasm. 

She  shrank  from  the  actual  start,  but  at  the  same 
time  was  eager  for  it.  Inaction  began  to  fret  her 
nerves,  and  she  wished  to  be  doing  something  to  show 
her  appreciation  of  Stanley  Baird's  generosity.  She 
telephoned  Mrs.  Brindley  that  she  would  come  in  the 
morning,  and  then  she  told  her  landlady. 

Mrs.  Belloc  was  more  than  regretful;  she  was  dis 
tressed.  Said  she :  "  I've  taken  a  tremendous  fancy 

170 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


to  you,  and  I  hate  to  give  you  up.     I'd  do  most  any 
thing  to  keep  you." 

Mildred  explained  that  her  work  compelled  her  to 
go. 

"  That's  very  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  If  I 
were  a  few  years  younger,  and  hadn't  spent  all  my  en 
ergy  in  teaching  school  and  putting  through  that  mar 
riage,  I'd  try  to  get  on  the  stage,  myself.  I  don't  want 
to  lose  sight  of  you." 

"  Oh,  I'll  come  to  see  you  from  time  to  time." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc  practically.  "  No 
more  than  I'd  come  to  see  you.  Our  lives  He  in  differ 
ent  directions,  and  in  New  York  that  means  we'll  never 
have  time  to  meet.  But  we  may  be  thrown  together 
again,  some  time.  As  I've  got  a  twenty  years'  lease  on 
this  house,  I  guess  you'll  have  no  trouble  in  finding 
me.  I  suppose  I  could  look  you  up  through  Professor 
Jennings  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mildred.  Then  impulsively,  "Mrs. 
Belloc,  there's  a  reason  why  I'd  like  to  change  without 
anyone's  knowing  what  has  become  of  me  —  I  mean, 
anyone  that  might  be  —  watching  me." 

"  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc  with  a 
ready  sympathy  that  made  Mildred  appreciate  the  ad 
vantages  of  the  friendship  of  unconventional,  knock 
about  people.  "  Nothing  could  be  easier.  You've  got 
no  luggage  but  that  bag.  I'll  take  it  up  to  the 
Grand  Central  Station  and  check  it,  and  bring  the 
check  back  here.  You  can  send  for  it  when  you 
please." 

"  But  what  about  me  ?  "  said  Mildred. 
171 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  was  coming  to  that.  You  walk  out  of  here,  say, 
about  half  an  hour  after  I  go  in  the  taxi.  You  walk 
through  to  the  corner  of  Lexington  Avenue  and  Thirty- 
seventh  Street  —  there  aren't  any  cabs  to  be  had  there. 
I'll  be  waiting  in  the  taxi,  and  we'll  make  a  dash  up  the 
East  Side  and  I  can  drop  you  at  some  quiet  place  in  the 
park  and  go  on  —  and  you  can  walk  to  your  new  ad 
dress.  How  does  that  strike  you?" 

Mildred  expressed  her  admiration.  The  plan  was 
carried  out,  as  Mrs.  Belloc  —  a  born  genius  at  all  forms 
of  intrigue  —  had  evolved  it  in  perfection  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  As  they  went  up  the  far  East  Side, 
Mrs.  Belloc,  looking  back  through  the  little  rear  win 
dow,  saw  a  taxi  a  few  blocks  behind  them.  "  We  haven't 
given  them  the  slip  yet,"  said  she,  "  but  we  will  in  the 
park."  They  entered  the  park  at  East  Ninetieth 
Street,  crossed  to  the  West  Drive.  Acting  on  Mrs. 
Belloc's  instructions,  the  motorman  put  on  full  speed  — 
with  due  regard  to  the  occasional  policeman.  At  a 
sharp  turning  near  the  Mall,  when  the  taxi  could  be 
seen  from  neither  direction,  he  abruptly  stopped.  Out 
sprang  Mildred  and  disappeared  behind  the  bushes 
completely  screening  the  walk  from  the  drive.  At  once 
the  taxi  was  under-way  again.  She,  waiting  where  the 
screen  of  bushes  was  securely  thick,  saw  the  taxi  that 
had  followed  them  in  the  East  Side  flash  by  —  in  pur 
suit  of  Mrs.  Belloc  alone. 

She  was  free  —  at  least  until  some  mischance  uncov 
ered  her  to  the  little  general.  At  Mrs.  Brindley's  she 
found  a  note  awaiting  her  —  a  note  from  Stanley 
Baird : 

172 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


DEAR  MILDRED  : 

I'm  off  for  the  Far  West,  and  probably  shall  not  be  in 
town  again  until  the  early  summer.  The  club  forwards 
my  mail  and  repeats  telegrams  as  marked.  Go  in  and  win, 
and  don't  hesitate  to  call  on  me  if  you  need  me.  No  false 
pride,  please!  I'm  getting  out  of  the  way  because  it's 
obviously  best  for  the  present. 

STANLEY. 

As  she  finished,  her  sense  of  freedom  was  complete. 
She  had  not  realized  how  uneasy  she  was  feeling  about 
Stanley.  She  did  not  doubt  his  generosity,  did  not 
doubt  that  he  genuinely  intended  to  leave  her  free,  and 
she  believed  that  his  delicacy  was  worthy  of  his  gen 
erosity.  Still,  she  was  constantly  fearing  lest  circum 
stances  should  thrust  them  both  —  as  much  against  his 
will  as  hers  —  into  a  position  in  which  she  would  have 
to  choose  between  seeming,  not  to  say  being,  ungrateful, 
and  playing  the  hypocrite,  perhaps  basely,  with  him. 
The  little  general  eluded,  Stanley  voluntarily  removed; 
she  was  indeed  free.  Now  she  could  work  with  an  un 
troubled  mind,  could  show  Mrs.  Brindley  that  intelli 
gent  and  persistent  work  —  her  "  biggest  if  in  all  the 
world  " —  was  in  fact  a  very  simple  matter. 

She  had  not  been  settled  at  Mrs.  Brindley's  many 
hours  before  she  discovered  that  not  only  was  she  free 
from  all  hindrances,  but  was  to  have  a  positive  and  great 
help.  Mrs.  Brindley's  talent  for  putting  people  at 
their  ease  was  no  mere  drawing-room  trick. 

She  made  Mildred  feel  immediately  at  home,  as  she 
had  not  felt  at  home  since  her  mother  introduced  James 
Presbury  into  their  house  at  Hanging  Rock.  Mrs. 

173 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Brindley  was  absolutely  devoid  of  pretenses.  When 
Mildred  spoke  to  her  of  this  quality  in  her  she  said: 

"  I  owe  that  to  my  husband.  I  was  brought  up  like 
everybody  else  —  to  be  more  or  less  of  a  poser  and  a 
hypocrite.  In  fact,  I  think  there  was  almost  nothing 
genuine  about  me.  My  husband  taught  me  to  be  my 
self,  to  be  afraid  of  nobody's  opinion,  to  show  myself 
just  as  I  was  and  to  let  people  seek  or  avoid  me  as  they 
saw  fit.  He  was  that  sort  of  man  himself." 

"  He  must  have  been  a  remarkable  man,"  said  Mil 
dred. 

"  He  was,"  replied  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  But  not  at 
tractive  —  at  least  not  to  me.  Our  marriage  was  a 
mistake.  We  quarreled  whenever  we  were  not  at  work 
with  the  music.  If  he  had  not  died,  we  should  have 
been  divorced."  She  smiled  merrily.  "  Then  he  would 
have  hired  me  as  his  musical  secretary,  and  we'd  have 
got  on  beautifully." 

Mildred  was  still  thinking  of  Mrs.  Brindley's  freedom 
from  pretense.  "  I've  never  dared  be  myself,"  con 
fessed  she.  "  I  don't  know  what  myself  really  is  like. 
I  was  thinking  the  other  day  how  for  one  reason  and 
another  I've  been  a  hypocrite  all  my  life.  You  see, 
I've  always  been  a  dependent  —  have  always  had  to 
please  someone  in  order  to  get  what  I  wanted." 

"  You  can  never  be  yourself  until  you  have  an  inde 
pendent  income,  however  small,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 
"  I've  had  that  joy  only  since  my  husband  died.  It's 
as  well  that  I  didn't  have  it  sooner.  One  is  the  better 
for  having  served  an  apprenticeship  at  self-repression 
and  at  pretending  to  virtues  one  has  not.  Only  those 

174 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


who  earn  their  freedom  know  how  to  use  it.  If  I  had 
had  it  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  I'd  have  been  an  intoler 
able  tyrant,  making  everyone  around  me  unhappy  and 
therefore  myself.  The  ideal  world  would  be  one  where 
everyone  was  born  free  and  never  knew  anything  else. 
Then,  no  one  being  afraid  or  having  to  serve,  every 
one  would  have  to  be  considerate  in  order  to  get  himself 
tolerated." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  really  ever  shall  be  able  to  earn  a 
living?  "  sighed  Mildred. 

"  You  must  decide  that  whatever  you  can  make  shall 
be  for  you  a  living,"  said  the  older  woman.  "  I  have 
lived  on  my  fixed  income,  which  is  under  two  thousand 
a  year.  And  I  am  ready  to  do  it  again  rather  than 
tolerate  anything  or  anybody  that  does  not  suit  me." 

"  I  shall  have  to  be  extremely  careful,"  laughed  Mil 
dred.  "  I  shall  be  a  dreadful  hypocrite  with  you." 

Mrs.  Brindley  smiled;  but  underneath,  Mildred  saw 
—  or  perhaps  felt  —  that  her  new  friend  was  indeed  not 
one  to  be  trifled  with.  She  said: 

"  You  and  I  will  get  on.  We'll  let  each  other  alone. 
We  have  to  be  more  or  less  intimate,  but  we'll  never  be 
familiar." 

After  a  time  she  discovered  that  Mrs.  Brindley's  first 
name  was  Cyrilla,  but  Mrs.  Brindley  and  Miss  Stevens 
they  remained  to  each  other  for  a  long  time  —  until 
circumstances  changed  their  accidental  intimacy  into 
enduring  friendship.  Not  to  anticipate,  in  the  course 
of  that  same  conversation  Mildred  said: 

"  If  there  is  anything  about  me  —  about  my  life  — 
that  you  wish  me  to  explain,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so." 

175 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  know  all  I  wish  to  know,"  replied  Cyrilla  Brind- 
lej.  "  Your  face  and  your  manner  and  your  way  of 
speaking  tell  me  all  the  essentials." 

"  Then  you  must  not  think  it  strange  when  I  say  I 
wish  no  one  to  know  anything  about  me." 

"  It  will  be  impossible  for  you  entirely  to  avoid  meet 
ing  people,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  You  must  have  some  sim 
ple  explanation  about  yourself,  or  you  will  attract  at 
tention  and  defeat  your  object." 

"  Lead  people  to  believe  that  I'm  an  orphan  —  per 
haps  of  some  obscure  family  —  who  is  trying  to  get  up 
in  the  world.  That  is  practically  the  truth." 

Mrs.  Brindley  laughed.  "  Quite  enough  for  New 
York,"  said  she.  "  It  is  not  interested  in  facts.  All 
the  New-Yorker  asks  of  you  is,  '  Can  you  pay  your  bills 
and  help  me  pay  mine  ?  '  " 

Competent  men  are  rare;  but,  thanks  to  the  advan 
tage  of  the  male  sex  in  having  to  make  the  struggle  for 
a  living,  they  are  not  so  rare  as  competent  women. 
Mrs.  Brindley  was  the  first  competent  woman  Mildred 
had  ever  known.  She  had  spent  but  a  few  hours  with 
her  before  she  began  to  appreciate  what  a  bad  atmos 
phere  she  had  always  breathed  —  bad  for  a  woman  who 
has  her  way  to  make  in  the  world,  or  indeed  for  any 
woman  not  willing  to  be  content  as  mere  more  or  less 
shiftless^  more  or  less  hypocritical  and  pretentious,  de 
pendent  and  parasite.  Mrs.  Brindley  —  well  bred  and 
well  educated  —  knew  all  the  little  matters  which  Mil 
dred  had  been  taught  to  regard  as  the  whole  of  a  lady's 
education.  But  Mildred  saw  that  these  trifles  were  but 
a  trifling  incident  in  Mrs.  Brindley's  knowledge.  She 

176 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


knew  real  things,  this  woman  who  was  a  thorough-go 
ing  housekeeper  and  who  trebled  her  income  by  giving 
music  lessons  a  few  hours  a  day  to  such  pupils  as  she 
thought  worth  the  teaching.  When  she  spoke,  she  al 
ways  said  something  —  one  of  the  first  things  noticed 
by  Mildred,  who,  being  too  lazy  to  think  except  as  her 
naturally  good  mind  insisted  on  exercising  itself,  usu 
ally  talked  simply  to  kill  time  and  without  any  idea  of 
getting  anywhere.  But  while  Cyrilla  —  without  in  the 
least  intending  it  —  roused  her  to  a  painful  sense  of 
her  own  limitations,  she  did  not  discourage  her.  Mil 
dred  also  began  to  feel  that  in  this  new  atmosphere  of 
ideas,  of  work,  of  accomplishment,  she  would  rapidly 
develop  into  a  different  sort  of  person.  It  was  ex 
tremely  fortunate  for  her^  thought  she,  that  she  was 
living  with  such  a  person  as  Cyrilla  Brindley.  In  the 
old  atmosphere,  or  with  any  taint  of  it,  she  would  have 
been  unable  to  become  a  serious  person.  She  would 
simply  have  dawdled  along,  twaddling  about  "  art "  and 
seriousness  and  careers  and  sacrifice,  content  with  the 
amateur's  methods  and  the  amateur's  results  —  and  de 
luding  herself  that  she  was  making  progress.  Now  — 
It  was  as  different  as  public  school  from  private  school 
• —  public  school  where  the  mind  is  rudely  stimulated, 
private  school  where  it  is  sedulously  mollycoddled.  She 
had  come  out  of  the  hothouse  into  the  open. 

At  first  she  thought  that  Jennings  was  to  be  as  great 
a  help  to  her  as  Cyrilla  Brindley.  Certainly  if  ever 
there  was  a  man  with  the  air  of  a  worker  and  a  place 
with  the  air  of  a  workshop,  that  man  and  that  place 
were  Eugene  Jennings  and  his  studio  in  Carnegie  Hall. 

177 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


When  Mildred  entered,  on  that  Saturday  morning,  at 
exactly  half -past  ten,,  Jennings  —  in  a  plain  if  elegant 
house-suit  —  looked  at  her,  looked  at  the  clock,  stopped 
a  girl  in  the  midst  of  a  burst  of  tremulous  noisy  melody. 

"  That  will  do,  Miss  Bristow,"  said  he.  "  You  have 
never  sung  it  worse.  You  do  not  improve.  Another 
lesson  like  this,  and  we  shall  go  back  and  begin  all  over 
again." 

The  girl,  a  f  attish,  "  temperamental "  blonde,  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Kindly  take  that  out  into  the  hall,"  said  Jennings 
coldly.  "  Your  time  is  up.  We  cannot  waste  Miss 
Stevens's  time  with  your  hysterics." 

Miss  Bristow  switched  from  tears  to  fury.  "  You 
brute !  You  beast !  "  she  shrieked,  and  flung  herself 
out  of  the  room,  slamming  the  door  after  her.  Jen 
nings  took  a  book  from  a  pile  upon  a  table,  opened  it, 
and  set  it  on  a  music-stand.  Evidently  Miss  Bristow 
was  forgotten  —  indeed,  had  passed  out  of  his  mind  at 
half -past  ten  exactly,  not  to  enter  it  again  until  she 
should  appear  at  ten  on  Monday  morning.  He  said 
to  Mildred: 

"  Now,  we'll  see  what  you  can  do.     Begin." 

"  I'm  a  little  nervous,"  said  Mildred  with  a  shy 
laugh.  "  If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  wait  till  I've 
got  used  to  my  surroundings." 

Jennings  looked  at  her.  The  long  sharp  nose 
seemed  to  be  rapping  her  on  the  forehead  like  a  wood 
pecker's  beak  on  the  bark  of  the  tree.  "  Begin,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  book. 

Mildred  flushed  angrily.  "  I  shall  not  begin  until 
178 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


I  can  begin,"  said  she.     The  time  to  show  this  man  that 
he  could  not  treat  her  brutally  was  at  the  outset. 

Jennings  opened  the  door  into  the  hall.  "  Good 
day,  Miss  Stevens,"  he  said  with  his  abrupt  bow. 

Mildred  looked  at  him;  he  looked  at  her.  Her  lip 
trembled,  the  hot  tears  flooded  and  blinded  her  eyes. 
She  went  unsteadily  to  the  music-stand  and  tried  to  see 
the  notes  of  the  exercises.  Jennings  closed  the  door 
and  seated  himself  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  She 
began  —  a  ridiculous  attempt.  She  stopped,  gritted 
her  teeth,  began  again.  Once  more  the  result  was  ab 
surd;  but  this  time  she  was  able  to  keep  on,  not  im 
proving,  but  maintaining  her  initial  off-key  quavering. 
She  stopped. 

"You  see,"  said  she.     "Shall  I  go  on?" 

"  Don't  stop  again  until  I  tell  you  to,  please,"  said 
he. 

She  staggered  and  stumbled  and  somersaulted  through 
two  pages  of  do-re-me-fa-sol-la-si.  Then  he  held  up 
his  finger. 

"  Enough,"  said  he. 

Silence,  an  awful  silence.  She  recalled  what  Mrs. 
Belloc  had  told  her  about  him,  what  Mrs.  Brindley  had 
implied.  But  she  got  no  consolation.  She  said  tim 
idly: 

"  Really,  Mr,  Jennings,  I  can  do  better  than  that. 
Won't  you  let  me  try  a  song?  " 

"God  forbid!"  said  he.  "You  can't  stand.  You 
can't  breathe.  You  can't  open  your  mouth.  Natu 
rally,  you  can't  sing." 

She  dropped  to  a  chair. 

179 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Take  the  book,  and  go  over  the  same  thing,  sit 
ting,"  said  he. 

She  began  to  remove  her  wraps. 

"  Just  as  you  are,"  he  commanded.  "  Try  to  forget 
yourself.  Try  to  forget  me.  Try  to  forget  what  a 
brute  I  am,  and  what  a  wonderful  singer  you  are.  Just 
open  your  mouth  and  throw  the  notes  out." 

She  was  rosy  with  rage.  She  was  reckless.  She 
sang.  At  the  end  of  three  pages  he  stopped  her  with 
an  enthusiastic  hand-clapping.  "  Good !  Good !  "  he 
cried.  "  I'll  take  you.  I'll  make  a  singer  of  you. 
Yes,  yes,  there's  something  to  work  on." 

The  door  opened.  A  tall,  thin  woman  with  many 
jewels  and  a  superb  fur  wrap  came  gliding  in.  Jen 
nings  looked  at  the  clock.  The  hands  pointed  to  eleven. 
Said  he  to  Mildred: 

"  Take  that  book  with  you.  Practice  what  you've 
done  to-day.  Learn  to  keep  your  mouth  open.  We'll 
go  into  that  further  next  time."  He  was  holding  the 
door  open  for  her.  As  she  passed  out,  she  heard  him 
say: 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Roswell.  We'll  go  at  that  third  song 
first." 

The  door  closed.  Reviewing  all  that  had  occurred, 
Mildred  decided  that  she  must  revise  her  opinion  of 
Jennings.  A  money-maker  he  no  doubt  was.  And 
why  not?  Did  he  not  have  to  live ?  But  a  teacher  also, 
and  a  great  teacher.  Had  he  not  destroyed  her  vanity 
at  one  blow,  demolished  it  ?  —  yet  without  discouraging 
her.  And  he  went  straight  to  the  bottom  of  things  — 
very  different  from  any  of  the  teachers  she  used  to  have 

180 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


when  she  was  posing  in  drawing-rooms  as  a  person  with 
a  voice  equal  to  the  most  difficult  opera,  if  only  she 
weren't  a  lady  and  therefore  not  forced  to  be  a  profes 
sional  singing  person.  Yes,  a  great  teacher  —  and  in 
deadly  earnest.  He  would  permit  no  trifling!  How 
she  would  have  to  work! 

And  she  went  to  work  with  an  energy  she  would  not 
have  believed  she  possessed.  He  instructed  her  mi 
nutely  in  how  to  stand,  in  how  to  breathe,  in  how  to  open 
her  mouth  and  keep  it  open,  in  how  to  relax  her  throat 
and  leave  it  relaxed.  He  filled  every  second  of  her 
half -hour;  she  had  never  before  realized  how  much  time 
half  an  hour  was,  how  use  could  be  made  of  every  one 
of  its  eighteen  hundred  seconds.  She  went  to  hear 
other  teachers  give  lessons,  and  she  understood  why 
Jennings  could  get  such  prices,  could  treat  his  pupils 
as  he  saw  fit.  She  became  an  extravagant  admirer  of 
him  as  a  teacher,  thought  him  a  genius,  felt  confident 
that  he  would  make  a  great  singer  of  her.  With  the 
second  lesson  she  began  to  progress  rapidly.  In  a  few 
weeks  she  amazed  herself.  At  last  she  was  really  sing 
ing.  Not  in  a  great  way,  but  in  the  beginnings  of  a 
great  way.  Her  voice  had  many  times  the  power  of 
her  drawing-room  days.  Her  notes  were  full  and 
round,  and  came  without  an  effort.  Her  former  ideas 
of  what  constituted  facial  and  vocal  expression  now 
seemed  ridiculous  to  her.  She  was  now  singing  with 
out  making  those  dreadful  faces  which  she  had  once 
thought  charming  and  necessary.  Her  lower  register, 
always  her  best,  was  almost  perfect.  Her  middle 
register  —  the  test  part  of  a  voice  —  was  showing  signs 

181 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


of  strength  and  steadiness  and  evenness.  And  she  was 
fast  getting  a  real  upper  register,  as  distinguished  from 
the  forced  and  shrieky  high  notes  that  pass  as  an  upper 
register  with  most  singers,  even  opera  singers.  After 
a  month  of  this  marvelous  forward  march,  she  sang  for 
Mrs.  Brindley  —  sang  the  same  song  she  had  essayed 
at  their  first  meeting.  When  she  finished,  Mrs.  Brind 
ley  said: 

"  Yes,  you've  done  wonders.  I've  been  noticing  your 
improvement  as  you  practiced.  You  certainly  have  a 
very  different  voice  and  method  from  those  you  had  a 
month  ago,"  and  so  on  through  about  five  minutes  of 
critical  and  discriminating  praise. 

Mildred  listened,  wondering  why  her  dissatisfaction, 
her  irritation,  increased  as  Mrs.  Brindley  praised  on 
and  on.  Beyond  question  Cyrilla  was  sincere,  and  was 
saying  even  more  than  Mildred  had  hoped  she  would 
say.  Yet —  Mildred  sat  moodily  measuring  off  oc 
taves  on  the  keyboard  of  the  piano.  If  she  had  been 
looking  at  her  friend's  face  she  would  have  flared  out 
in  anger;  for  Cyrilla  Brindley  was  taking  advantage 
of  her  abstraction  to  observe  her  with  friendly  sympathy 
and  sadness.  Presently  she  concealed  this  candid  ex 
pression  and  said: 

"  You  are  satisfied  with  your  progress,  aren't  you, 
Miss  Stevens  ?  " 

Mildred  flared  up  angrily.  "  Certainly !  "  replied 
she.  "  How  could  I  fail  to  be?  " 

Mrs.  Brindley  did  not  answer  —  perhaps  because  she 
thought  no  answer  was  needed  or  expected.  But  to  Mil 
dred  her  silence  somehow  seemed  a  denial. 

182 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  If  you  can  only  keep  what  you've  got  —  and  go 
on,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 

"  Oh,  I  shall,  never  fear,"  retorted  Mildred. 

"  But  I  do  fear,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  I  think  it's 
always  well  to  fear  until  success  is  actually  won.  And 
then  there's  the  awful  fear  of  not  being  able  to  hold 
it." 

After  a  moment's  silence  Mildred,  who  could  not  hide 
away  resentment  against  one  she  liked,  said :  "  Why 
aren't  you  satisfied,  Mrs.  Brindley  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  satisfied,"  protested  Cyrilla.  "  Only  it 
makes  me  afraid  to  see  you  so  well  satisfied.  I've  seen 
that  often  in  people  first  starting,  and  it's  always  dan 
gerous.  You  see,  my  dear,  you've  got  a  straight-away 
hundred  miles  to  walk.  Can't  you  see  that  it  would  be 
possible  for  you  to  become  too  much  elated  by  the  way 
you  walked  the  first  part  of  the  first  mile  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  try  to  discourage  me  ?  "  said  Mildred. 

Mrs.  Brindley  colored.  "  I  do  it  because  I  want  to 
save  you  from  despair  a  little  later,"  said  she.  "  But 
that  is  foolish  of  me.  I  shall  only  irritate  you  against 
me.  I'll  not  do  it  again.  And  please  don't  ask  my 
opinion.  If  you  do,  I  can't  help  showing  exactly  what 
I  think." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  I've  done  well?  "  cried  Mil 
dred. 

"  Indeed  you  have,"  replied  Cyrilla  warmly. 

"Then  I  don't  understand.     What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,  and  then  I'll  stop  and  you  must  not  ask 
my  opinion  again.  We  live  too  close  together  to  be 
able  to  afford  to  criticize  each  other.  What  I  meant 

183 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


was  this :  You  have  done  well  the  first  part  of  the  great 
task  that's  before  you.  If  you  had  done  it  any  less 
well,  it  would  have  been  folly  for  you  to  go  on." 

"  That  is,  what  I've  done  doesn't  amount  to  any 
thing?  Mr.  Jennings  doesn't  agree  with  you." 

"Doubtless  he's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "At 
any  rate,  we  all  agree  that  you  have  shown  that  you 
have  a  voice." 

She  said  this  so  simply  and  heartily  that  Mildred 
could  not  but  be  mollified.  Mrs.  Brindley  changed  the 
subject  to  the  song  Mildred  had  sung,  and  Mildred 
stopped  puzzling  over  the  mystery  of  what  she  had 
meant  by  her  apparently  enthusiastic  words,  which  had 
yet  diffused  a  chill  atmosphere  of  doubt. 

She  was  doing  her  scales  so  well  that  she  became  im 
patient  of  such  "  tiresome  child's  play."  And  pres 
ently  Jennings  gave  her  songs,  and  did  not  discourage 
her  when  she  talked  of  roles,  of  getting  seriously  at 
what,  after  all,  she  intended  to  do.  Then  there  came  a 
week  of  vile  weather,  and  Mildred  caught  a  cold.  She 
neglected  it.  Her  voice  left  her.  Her  tonsils  swelled. 
She  had  a  bad  attack  of  ulcerated  sore  throat.  For 
nearly  three  weeks  she  could  not  take  a  single  one  of  the 
lessons,  which  were,  nevertheless,  paid  for.  Jennings 
rebuked  her  sharply. 

"  A  singer  has  no  right  to  be  sick,"  said  he. 

"  You  have  a  cold  yourself,"  retorted  she. 

"  But  I  am  not  a  singer.  I've  nothing  that  inter 
feres  with  my  work." 

"  It's  impossible  not  to  take  cold,"  said  Mildred. 
"  You  are  unreasonable  with  me." 

184 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


He  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "  Go  get  well,"  he  said. 

The  sore  throat  finally  yielded  to  the  treatment  of 
Dr.  Hicks,  the  throat-specialist.  His  bill  was  seventy- 
five  dollars.  But  while  the  swelling  in  the  tonsils  sub 
sided  it  did  not  depart.  She  could  take  lessons  again. 
Some  days  she  sang  as  well  as  ever,  and  on  those  days 
Jennings  was  charming.  Other  days  she  sang  atro 
ciously,  and  Jennings  treated  her  as  if  she  were  doing 
it  deliberately.  A  third  and  worse  state  was  that  of 
the  days  when  she  in  the  same  half -hour  alternately 
sang  well  and  badly.  On  those  days  Jennings  acted 
like  a  lunatic.  He  raved  up  and  down  the  studio,  all 
but  swearing  at  her.  At  first  she  was  afraid  of  him  — 
withered  under  his  scorn,  feared  he  would  throw  open 
his  door  and  order  her  out  and  forbid  her  ever  to  enter 
again.  But  gradually  she  came  to  understand  him  — 
not  enough  to  lose  her  fear  of  him  altogether,  but 
enough  to  lose  the*  fear  of  his  giving  up  so  profitable  a 
pupil. 

The  truth  was  that  Jennings,  like  every  man  who 
succeeds  at  anything  in  this  world,  operated  upon  a 
system  to  which  he  rigidly  adhered.  He  was  a  man  of 
small  talent  and  knowledge,  but  of  great  persistence 
and  not  a  little  common  sense.  He  had  tried  to  be  a 
singer,  had  failed  because  his  voice  was  small  and  unre 
liable.  He  had  adopted  teaching  singing  as  a  means 
of  getting  a  living.  He  had  learned  just  enough  about 
it  to  enable  him  to  teach  the  technical  elements  —  what 
is  set  down  in  the  books.  By  observing  other  and  older 
teachers  he  had  got  together  a  teaching  system  that  was 
as  good  —  and  as  bad  —  as  any,  and  this  he  dubbed 

185 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  Jennings  Method  and  proceeded  to  exploit  as  the 
only  one  worth  while.  When  that  method  was  worked 
out  and  perfected,  he  ceased  learning,  ceased  to  give  a 
thought  to  the  professional  side  of  his  profession,  just 
as  most  professional  men  do.  He  would  have  resented 
a  suggestion  or  a  new  idea  as  an  attack  upon  the  Jen 
nings  Method.  The  overwhelming  majority  of  the 
human  race  —  indeed,  all  but  a  small  handful  —  have 
this  passion  for  stagnation,  this  ferocity  against  change. 
It  is  in  large  part  due  to  laziness ;  for  a  new  idea  means 
work  in  learning  it  and  in  unlearning  the  old  ideas 
that  have  been  true  until  the  unwelcome  advent  of  the 
new.  In  part  also  this  resistance  to  the  new  idea  arises 
from  a  fear  that  the  new  idea,  if  tolerated,  will  put  one 
out  of  business,  will  set  him  adrift  without  any  means  of 
support.  The  coachman  hates  the  automobile,  the 
hand-worker  hates  the  machine,  the  orthodox  preacher 
hates  the  heretic,  the  politician  hates  the  reformer,  the 
doctor  hates  the  bacteriologist  and  the  chemist,  the  old 
woman  hates  the  new  —  all  these  in  varying  proportions 
according  to  the  degree  in  which  the  iconoclast  attacks 
laziness  or  livelihood.  Finally  we  all  hate  any  and  all 
new  ideas  because  they  seem  to  imply  that  we,  who  have 
held  the  old  ideas,  have  been  ignorant  and  stupid  in  so 
doing.  A  new  idea  is  an  attack  upon  the  vanity  of 
everyone  who  has  been  a  partisan  of  the  old  ideas  and 
their  established  order. 

Jennings,  thoroughly  human  in  thus  closing  his  mind 
to  all  ideas  about  his  profession,  was  equally  human  in 
that  he  had  his  mind  and  his  senses  opened  full  width 
to  ideas  on  how  to  make  more  money.  If  there  had 

186 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


been  money  in  new  ideas  about  teaching  singing  Jen 
nings  would  not  have  closed  to  them.  But  the  money 
was  all  in  studying  and  learning  how  better  to  handle 
the  women  —  they  were  all  women  who  came  to  him  for 
instruction.  His  common  sense  warned  him  at  the  out 
set  that  the  obviously  easygoing  teacher  would  not  long 
retain  his  pupils.  On  the  other  hand,  he  saw  that  the 
really  severe  teacher  would  not  retain  his  pupils,  either. 
Who  were  these  pupils  ?  In  the  first  place,  they  were 
all  ignorant,  for  people  who  already  know  do  not  go 
to  school  to  learn.  They  had  the  universal  delusion 
that  a  teacher  can  teach.  The  fact  is  that  a  teacher 
is  a  well.  Some  wells  are  full,  others  almost  dry.  Some 
are  so  arranged  that  water  cannot  be  got  from  them, 
others  have  attachments  of  various  kinds,  making  the 
drawing  of  water  more  or  less  easy.  But  not  from  the 
best  well  with  the  latest  pump  attachment  can  one  get 
a  drink  unless  one  does  the  drinking  oneself.  A  teacher 
is  rarely  a  well.  The  pupil  must  not  only  draw  the 
water,  but  also  drink  it,  must  not  only  teach  himself, 
but  also  learn  what  he  teaches.  Now  we  are  all  of  us 
born  thirsty  for  knowledge,  and  nearly  all  of  us  are 
born  both  capable  of  teaching  ourselves  and  capable  of 
learning  what  we  teach,  that  is,  of  retaining  and  assimi 
lating  it.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  artificially  feeding 
the  mind,  just  as  there  is  such  a  thing  as  artificially 
feeding  the  body ;  but  while  everyone  knows  that  arti 
ficial  feeding  of  the  body  is  a  success  only  to  a  limited 
extent  and  for  a  brief  period,  everyone  believes  that 
the  artificial  feeding  of  the  mind  is  not  only  the  best 
method,  but  the  only  method.  Nor  doe's  the  discovery 

187 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


that  the  mind  is  simply  the  brain,  is  simply  a  part  of 
the  body,  subject  to  the  body's  laws,  seem  materially  to 
have  lessened  this  fatuous  delusion. 

Some  of  Jennings's  pupils  —  not  more  than  two  of 
the  forty-odd  were  in  genuine  earnest ;  that  is,  those  two 
were  educating  themselves  to  be  professional  singers, 
were  determined  so  to  be,  had  limited  time  and  means 
and  endless  capacity  for  work.  Others  of  the  forty  — 
about  half  —  thought  they  were  serious,  though  in  fact 
the  idea  of  a  career  was  more  or  less  hazy.  They  were 
simply  taking  lessons  and  toiling  aimlessly  along,  not 
less  aimlessly  because  they  indulged  in  vague  talk  and 
vaguer  thought  about  a  career.  The  rest  —  the  other 
half  of  the  forty  —  were  amusing  themselves  by  taking 
singing  lessons.  It  killed  time,  it  gave  them  a  feeling 
of  doing  something,  it  gave  them  a  reputation  of  being 
serious  people  and  not  mere  idlers,  it  gave  them  an 
excuse  for  neglecting  the  domestic  duties  which  they 
regarded  as  degrading  —  probably  because  to  do  them 
well  requires  study  and  earnest,  hard  work.  The  Jen 
nings  singing  lesson,  at  fifteen  dollars  a  half -hour,  was 
rather  an  expensive  hypocrisy;  but  the  women  who 
used  it  as  a  cloak  for  idleness  as  utter  as  the  mere 
yawners  and  bridgers  and  shoppers  had  rich  husbands 
or  fathers. 

Thus  it  appears  that  the  Jennings  School  was  a  per 
fect  microcosm,  as  the  scientists  would  say,  of  the  human 
race  —  the  serious  very  few,  toiling  more  or  less  suc 
cessfully  toward  a  definite  goal;  the  many,  compelled  to 
do  something,  and  imagining  themselves  serious  and 
purposeful  as  they  toiled  along  toward  nothing  in  par- 

188 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ticular  but  the  next  lesson  —  that  is,  the  next  day's 
appointed  task;  the  utterly  idle,  fancying  themselves 
busy  and  important  when  in  truth  they  were  simply  a 
fraud  and  an  expense. 

Jennings  got  very  little  from  the  deeply  and  genu 
inely  serious.  One  of  them  he  taught  free,  taking 
promissory  notes  for  the  lessons.  But  he  held  on  to 
them  because  when  they  finally  did  teach  themselves 
to  sing  and  arrived  at  fame,  his  would  be  part  of  the 
glory  —  and  glory  meant  more  and  more  pupils  of 
the  paying  kinds.  His  large  income  came  from  the 
other  two  kinds  of  pupils,  the  larger  part  of  it  from 
the  kind  that  had  no  seriousness  in  them.  His  problem 
was  how  to  keep  all  these  paying  pupils  and  also  keep 
his  reputation  as  a  teacher.  In  solving  that  problem 
he  evolved  a  method  that  was  the  true  Jennings's  method. 
Not  in  all  New  York,  filled  as  it  is  with  people  living 
and  living  well  upon  the  manipulation  of  the  weaknesses 
of  their  fellow  beings  —  not  in  all  New  York  was  there 
an  adroiter  manipulator  than  Eugene  Jennings.  He 
was  harsh  to  brutality  when  he  saw  fit  to  be  so  —  or, 
rather,  when  he  deemed  it  wise  to  be  so.  Yet  never 
had  he  lost  a  paying  pupil  through  his  harshness. 
These  were  fashionable  women  —  most  delicate,  sensi 
tive  ladies  —  at  whom  he  swore.  They  wept,  stayed  on, 
advertised  him  as  a  "  wonderful  serious  teacher  who 
won't  stand  any  nonsense  and  doesn't  care  a  hang 
whether  you  stay  or  go  —  and  he  can  teach  absolutely 
anybody  to  sing !  "  He  knew  how  to  be  gentle  without 
seeming  to  be  so ;  he  knew  how  to  flatter  without  uttering 
a  single  word  that  did  not  seem  to  be  reluctant  praise 

189 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


or  savage  criticism ;  he  knew  how  to  make  a  lady  with 
a  little  voice  work  enough  to  make  a  showing  that  would 
spur  her  to  keep  on  and  on  with  him;  he  knew  how 
to  encourage  a  rich  woman  with  no  more  song  than  a 
peacock  until  she  would  come  to  him  three  times  a  week 
for  many  years  —  and  how  he  did  make  her  pay  for 
what  he  suffered  in  listening  to  the  hideous  squawkings 
and  yelpings  she  inflicted  upon  him ! 

Did  Jennings  think  himself  a  fraud?  No  more  than 
the  next  human  being  who  lives  by  fraud.  Is  there  any 
trade  or  profession  whose  practitioners,  in  the  bottom 
of  their  hearts,  do  not  think  they  are  living  excusably 
and  perhaps  creditably  ?  The  Jennings  theory  was  that 
he  was  a  great  teacher ;  that  there  were  only  a  very  few 
serious  and  worth-while  seekers  of  the  singing  art; 
that  in  order  to  live  and  to  teach  these  few,  he  had  to 
receive  the  others;  that,  anyhow,  singing  was  a  fine 
art  for  anyone  to  have  and  taking  singing  lessons  made 
the  worst  voice  a  little  less  bad  —  or,  at  the  least,  sing 
ing  was  splendid  for  the  health.  One  of  his  favorite 
dicta  was,  "  Every  child  should  be  taught  singing  — 
for  its  health,  if  for  nothing  else."  And  perhaps  he 
was  right!  At  any  rate,  he  made  his  forty  to  fifty 
thousand  a  year  —  and  on  days  when  he  had  a  succes 
sion  of  the  noisy,  tuneless  squawkers,  he  felt  that  he 
more  than  earned  every  cent  of  it. 

Mildred  did  not  penetrate  far  into  the  secret  of  the 
money-making  branch  of  the  Jennings  method.  It  was 
crude  enough,  too.  But  are  not  all  the  frauds  that 
fool  the  human  race  crude?  Human  beings  both  can 
not  and  will  not  look  beneath  surfaces.  All  Mildred 

190 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


learned  was  that  Jennings  did  not  give  up  paying  pupils. 
She  had  not  confidence  enough  in  this  discovery  to  put 
it  to  the  test.  She  did  not  dare  disobey  him  or  shirk  — 
even  when  she  was  most  disposed  to  do  so.  But  grad 
ually  she  ceased  from  that  intense  application  she  had 
at  first  brought  to  her  work.  She  kept  up  the  forms. 
She  learned  her  lessons.  She  did  all  that  was  asked. 
She  seemed  to  be  toiling  as  in  the  beginning.  In  reality, 
she  became  by  the  middle  of  spring  a  mere  lesson-taker. 
Her  interest  in  clothes  and  in  going  about  revived.  She 
saw  in  the  newspapers  that  General  Siddall  had  taken 
a  party  of  friends  on  a  yachting  trip  around  the  world, 
so  she  felt  that  she  was  no  longer  being  searched  for, 
at  least  not  vigorously.  She  became  acquainted  with 
smart,  rich  West  Side  women,  taking  lessons  at  Jen- 
nings's.  She  amused  herself  going  about  with  them  and 
with  the  "  musical  "  men  they  attracted  —  amateur  and 
semi-professional  singers  and  players  upon  instruments. 
She  drew  Mrs.  Brindley  into  their  society.  They  had 
little  parties  at  the  flat  in  Fifty-ninth  Street  —  the  most 
delightful  little  parties  imaginable  —  dinners  and  sup 
pers,  music,  clever  conversations,  flirtations  of  a  harm 
less  but  fascinating  kind.  If  anyone  had  accused  Mil 
dred  of  neglecting  her  work,  of  forgetting  her  career, 
she  would  have  grown  indignant,  and  if  Mrs.  Brindley 
had  overheard,  she  would  have  been  indignant  for  her. 
Mildred  worked  as  much  as  ever.  She  was  making  ex 
cellent  progress.  She  was  doing  all  that  could  be  done. 
It  takes  time  to  develop  a  voice,  to  make  an  opera-singer. 
Forcing  is  dangerous,  when  it  is  not  downright  useless. 
In  May  —  toward  the  end  of  the  month  —  Stanley 

191 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Baird  returned.  Mildred,  who  happened  to  be  in  unusu 
ally  good  voice  that  day,  sang  for  him  at  the  Jennings 
studio,  and  he  was  enchanted.  As  the  last  note  died 
away  he  cried  out  to  Jennings : 

"  She's  a  wonder,  isn't  she?  " 

Jennings  nodded.     "  She's  got  a  voice,"  said  he. 

"  She  ought  to  go  on  next  year." 

"  Not  quite  that,"  said  Jennings.  "  We  want  to 
get  that  upper  register  right  first.  And  it's  a  young 
voice  —  she's  very  young  for  her  age.  We  must  be 
careful  not  to  strain  it." 

"  Why,  what's  a  voice  for  if  not  to  sing  with  ?  "  said 
Stanley. 

"  A  fine  voice  is  a  very  delicate  instrument,"  replied 
the  teacher.  He  added  coldly,  "  You  must  let  me  judge 
as  to  what  shall  be  done." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Stanley  in  haste. 

"  She's  had  several  colds  this  winter  and  spring," 
pursued  Jennings.  "  Those  things  are  dangerous  until 
the  voice  has  its  full  growth.  She  should  have  two 
months'  complete  rest." 

Jennings  was  going  away  for  a  two  months'  vaca 
tion.  He  wras  giving  this  advice  to  all  his  pupils. 

"You're  right,"  said  Baird.  "Did  you  hear,  Mil 
dred?" 

"But  I  hate  to  stop  work,"  objected  Mildred.  "I 
want  to  be  doing  something.  I'm  very  impatient  of 
this  long  wait." 

And  honest  she  was  in  this  protest.  She  had  no  idea 
of  the  state  of  her  own  mind.  She  fancied  she  was  still 
as  eager  as  ever  for  the  career,  as  intensely  interested 

192 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


as  ever  in  her  work.  She  did  not  dream  of  the  real 
meaning  of  her  content  with  her  voice  as  it  was,  of 
her  lack  of  uneasiness  over  the  appalling  fact  that  such 
voice  as  she  had  was  unreliable,  came  and  went  for  no 
apparent  reason. 

"  Absolute  rest  for  two  months,"  declared  Jennings 
grimly.  "  Not  a  note  until  I  return  in  August." 

Mildred  gave  a  resigned  sigh. 

There  is  much  inveighing  against  hypocrisy,  a  vice 
unsightly  rather  than  desperately  wicked.  And  in  the 
excitement  about  it  its  dangerous,  even  deadly  near 
kinsman,  self-deception,  escapes  unassailed.  Seven 
cardinal  sins ;  but  what  of  the  eighth  ?  —  the  parent  of 
all  the  others,  the  one  beside  which  the  children  seem 
almost  white? 

During  the  first  few  weeks  Mildred  had  been  careful 
about  spending  money.  Economy  she  did  not  under 
stand;  how  could  she,  when  she  had  never  had  a  lesson 
in  it  or  a  valuable  hint  about  it?  So  economy  was 
impossible.  The  only  way  in  which  such  people  can 
keep  order  in  their  finances  is  by  not  spending  any 
money  at  all.  Mildred  drew  nothing,  spent  nothing. 
This,  so  long  as  she  gave  her  whole  mind  to  her  work. 
But  after  the  first  great  cold,  so  depressing,  so  subtly 
undermining,  she  began  to  go  about,  to  think  of,  to 
need  and  to  buy  clothes,  to  spend  money  in  a  dozen 
necessary  ways.  After  all,  she  was  simply  borrowing 
the  money.  Presently,  she  would  be  making  a  career, 
would  be  earning  large  sums.  She  would  pay  back 
everything,  with  interest.  Stanley  meant  for  her  to 

193 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


use  the  money.  Really,  she  ought  to  use  it.  How 
would  her  career  be  helped  by  her  going  about  looking 
a  dowd  and  a  frump?  She  had  always  been  used  to  the 
comforts  of  life.  If  she  deprived  herself  of  them,  she 
would  surely  get  into  a  frame  of  mind  where  her  work 
would  suffer.  No,  she  must  lead  the  normal  life  of  a 
woman  of  her  class.  To  work  all  the  time  —  why,  as 
Jennings  said,  that  took  away  all  the  freshness,  made 
one  stale  and  unfit.  A  little  distraction  —  always,  of 
course,  with  musical  people,  people  who  talked  and 
thought  and  did  music  —  that  sort  of  distraction  was 
quite  as  much  a  part  of  her  education  as  the  singing 
lessons.  Mrs.  Brindley,  certainly  a  sensible  and  serious 
woman  if  ever  there  was  one  —  Mrs.  Brindley  believed 
so,  and  it  must  be  so.  &•«*£! 

After  that  illness  and  before  she  began  to  go  about, 
she  had  fallen  into  several  fits  of  hideous  blues,  had  been 
in  despair  as  to  the  future.  As  soon  as  she  saw  some 
thing  of  people  —  always  the  valuable,  musical  sort  of 
people  —  her  spirits  improved.  And  when  she  got  a 
few  new  dresses  —  very  simple  and  inexpensive,  but 
stylish  and  charming  —  and  the  hats,  too,  were  success 
ful  —  as  soon  as  she  was  freshly  arrayed  she  was  sing 
ing  better  and  was  talking  hopefully  of  the  career 
again.  Yes,  it  was  really  necessary  that  she  live  as 
she  had  always  been  used  to  living. 

When  Stanley  came  back  her  account  was  drawn  up 
to  the  last  cent  of  the  proportionate  amount.  In  fact, 
it  might  have  been  a  few  dollars  —  a  hundred  or  so  — 
overdrawn.  She  was  not  sure.  Still,  that  was  a  small 
matter.  During  the  summer  she  would  spend  less,  and 

194 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


by  fall  she  would  be  far  ahead  again  —  and  ready  to 
buy  fall  clothes.  One  day  he  said: 

"  You  must  be  needing  more  money." 

"  No  indeed,"  cried  she.  "  I've  been  living  within 
the  hundred  a  week  —  or  nearly.  I'm  afraid  I'm  fright 
fully  extravagant,  and — " 

"Extravagant?"  laughed  he.  "You  are  afraid  to 
borrow!  Why,  three  or  four  nights  of  singing  will 
pay  back  all  you've  borrowed." 

"  I  suppose  I  will  make  a  lot  of  money,"  said  she. 
"  They  all  tell  me  so.  But  it  doesn't  s^em  real  to  me." 
She  hastily  added :  "  I  don't  mean  the  career.  That 
seems  real  enough.  I  can  hardly  wait  to  begin  at  the 
roles.  I  mean  the  money  part.  You  see,  I  never  earned 
any  money  and  never  really  had  any  money  of  my  own." 

"  Well,  you'll  have  plenty  of  it  in  two  or  three  years," 
said  Stanley,  confidently.  "  And  you  mustn't  try  to 
live  like  girls  who've  been  brought  up  to  hardship.  It 
isn't  necessary,  and  it  would  only  unfit  you  for  your 
work." 

"  I  think  that's  true,"  said  she.  "  But  I've  enough  — 
more  than  enough."  She  gave  him  a  nervous,  shy, 
almost  agonized  look.  "  Please  don't  try  to  put  me 
under  any  heavier  obligations  than  I  have  to  be." 

"  Please  don't  talk  nonsense  about  obligation,"  re 
torted  he.  "Let's  get  away  from  this  subject.  You 
don't  seem  to  realize  that  you're  doing  me  a  favor,  that 
it's  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  help  develop  such  a 
marvelous  voice  as  yours.  Scores  of  people  would  jump 
at  the  chance." 

"  That  doesn't  lessen  my  obligation,"  said  she.  And 

195 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she  thought  she  meant  it,  though,  in  fact,  his  generous 
and  plausible  statement  of  the  case  had  immediately 
lessened  not  a  little  her  sense  of  obligation. 

On  the  whole,  however,  she  was  not  sorry  she  had 
this  chance  to  talk  of  obligation.  Slowly,  as  they  saw 
each  other  from  time  to  time,  often  alone,  Stanley  had 
begun  —  perhaps  in  spite  of  himself  and  unconsciously 
—  to  show  his  feeling  for  her.  Sometimes  his  hand 
accidentally  touched  hers,  and  he  did  not  draw  it  away 
as  quickly  as  he  might.  And  she  —  it  was  impossible 
for  her  to  make  any  gesture,  much  less  say  anything, 
that  suggested  sensitiveness  on  her  part.  It  would  put 
him  in  an  awkward  position,  would  humiliate  him  most 
unjustly.  He  fell  into  the  habit  of  holding  her  hand 
longer  than  was  necessary  at  greeting  or  parting,  of 
touching  her  caressingly,  of  looking  at  her  with  the 
eyes  of  a  lover  instead  of  a  friend.  She  did  not  like 
these  things.  For  some  mysterious  reason  —  from 
sheer  perversity,  she  thought  —  she  had  taken  a  strong 
physical  dislike  to  him.  Perfectly  absurd,  for  there 
was  nothing  intrinsically  repellent  about  this  handsome, 
clean,  most  attractively  dressed  man,  of  the  best  type 
of  American  and  New-Yorker.  No,  only  perversity 
could  explain  such  a.  silly  notion.  She  was  always 
afraid  he  would  try  to  take  advantage  of  her  delicate 
position  —  always  afraid  she  would  have  to  yield  some 
thing,  some  trifle ;  yet  the  idea  of  giving  anything  from 
a  sense  of  obligation  was  galling  to  her.  His  very 
refraining  made  her  more  nervous,  the  more  shrinking. 
If  he  would  only  commit  some  overt  act  —  seize  her, 
kiss  her2  make  outrageous  demands  —  but  this  ref  rain- 

196 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ing,  these  touches  that  might  be  accidental  and  again 
might  be  stealthy  approach —  She  hated  to  have  him 
shake  hands  with  her,  would  have  liked  to  draw  away 
when  his  clothing  chanced  to  brush  against  hers. 

So  she  was  glad  of  the  talk  about  obligation.  It  set 
him  at  a  distance,  immediately.  He  ceased  to  look  lov 
ingly,  to  indulge  in  the  nerve-rasping  little  caresses. 
He  became  carefully  formal.  He  was  evidently  eager 
to  prove  the  sincerity  of  his  protestations  —  too  eager 
perhaps,  her  perverse  mind  suggested.  Still,  sincere 
or  not,  he  held  to  all  the  forms  of  sincerity. 

Some  friends  of  Mrs.  Brindley's  who  were  going 
abroad  offered  her  their  cottage  on  the  New  Jersey 
coast  near  Seabright,  and  a  big  new  touring-car  and 
chauffeur.  She  and  Mildred  at  once  gave  up  the  plan 
for  a  summer  in  the  Adirondacks,  the  more  readily  as 
several  of  the  men  and  women  they  saw  the  most  of 
lived  within  easy  distance  of  them  at  Deal  Beach  and 
Elberon.  When  Mildred  went  shopping  she  was  lured 
into  buying  a  lot  of  summer  things  she  would  not  have 
needed  in  the  Adirondacks  —  a  mere  matter  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  or  thereabouts.  A  little  addi 
tional  economy  in  the  fall  would  soon  make  up  for  such 
a  trifle,  and  if  there  is  one  time  more  than  another  when 
a  woman  wishes  to  look  well  and  must  look  well,  that 
time  is  summer  —  especially  by  the  sea. 

When  her  monthly  statement  from  the  bank  came  on 
the  first  of  July  she  found  that  five  thousand  dollars 
had  been  deposited  to  her  credit.  She  was  moved  by 
this  discovery  to  devote  several  hours  —  very  depressed 
hours  they  were  —  to  her  finances.  She  had  spent  a 

197 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


great  deal  more  money  than  she  had  thought ;  indeed, 
since  March  she  had  been  living  at  the  rate  of  fifteen 
thousand  a  year.  She  tried  to  account  for  this  amazing 
extravagance.  But  she  could  recall  no  expenditure 
that  was  not  really  almost,  if  not  quite,  necessary.  It 
took  a  frightful  lot  of  money  to  live  in  New  York. 
How  did  people  with  small  incomes  manage  to  get  along  ? 
Whatever  would  have  become  of  her  if  she  had  not  had 
the  good  luck  to  be  able  to  borrow  from  Stanley  ?  What 
would  become  of  her  if,  before  she  was  succeeding  on 
the  stage,  Stanley  should  die  or  lose  faith  in  her  or 
interest  in  her?  What  would  become  of  her!  She  had 
been  living  these  last  few  months  among  people  who 
had  wide-open  eyes  and  knew  everything  that  was  going 
on  —  and  did  some  "  going-on  "  themselves,  as  she  was 
now  more  than  suspecting.  There  were  many  women, 
thousands  of  them  —  among  the  attractive,  costily 
dressed  throngs  she  saw  in  the  carriages  and  autos  and 
cabs  —  who  would  not  like  to  have  it  published  how  they 
contrived  to  live  so  luxuriously.  No,  they  would  not 
like  to  have  it  published,  though  they  cared  not  a  fig 
for  its  being  whispered;  New  York  too  thoroughly 
understood  how  necessary  luxurious  living  was,  and  was 
too  completely  divested  of  the  follies  of  the  old-fash 
ioned,  straight-laced  morality,  to  mind  little  shabby 
details  of  queer  conduct  in  striving  to  keep  up  with 
the  procession.  Even  the  married  women,  using  their 
husbands  —  and  letting  their  husbands  use  them  —  did 
not  frown  on  the  irregularities  of  their  sisters  less  for 
tunately  married  or  not  able  to  find  a  permanent  "  leg 
to  pull."  As  for  the  girls  —  Mildred  had  observed 

198 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


strange  things  in  the  lives  of  the  girls  she  knew  more 
or  less  well  nowadays.  In  fact,  all  the  women,  of  all 
classes  and  conditions,  were  engaged  in  the  same  mad 
struggle  to  get  hold  of  money  to  spend  upon  fun  and 
finery  —  a  struggle  matching  in  recklessness  and  reso 
luteness  the  struggle  of  the  men  down-town  for  money 
for  the  same  purposes.  It  was  curious,  this  double 
mania  of  the  men  and  the  women  —  the  mania  to  get 
money,  no  matter  how;  the  instantly  succeeding  mania 
to  get  rid  of  it,  no  matter  how.  Looking  about  her, 
Mildred  felt  that  she  was  peculiar  and  apart  from  nearly 
all  the  women  she  knew.  She  got  her  money  honorably. 
She  did  not  degrade  herself,  did  not  sell  herself,  did  not 
wheedle  or  cajole  or  pretend  in  the  least  degree.  She 
had  grown  more  liberal  as  her  outlook  on  life  had 
widened  with  contact  with  the  New  York  mind  —  no, 
with  the  mind  of  the  whole  easy-going,  luxury-mad, 
morality-scorning  modern  world.  She  still  kept  her 
standard  for  herself  high,  and  believed  in  a  purity  for 
herself  which  she  did  not  exact  or  expect  in  her  friends. 
In  this  respect  she  and  Cyrilla  Brindley  were  sympa 
thetically  alike.  No,  Mildred  was  confident  that  in  no 
circumstances,  in  no  circumstances,  would  she  relax  her 
ideas  of  what  she  personally  could  do  and  could  not  do. 
Not  that  she  blamed,  or  judged  at  all,  women  who  did 
as  she  would  not ;  but  she  could  not,  simply  could  not, 
however  hard  she  might  be  driven,  do  those  things  — 
though  she  could  easily  understand  how  other  women 
did  them  in  preference  to  sinking  down  into  the  working 
class  or  eking  out  a  frowsy  existence  in  some  poor 
boarding-house.  The  temptation  would  be  great. 

199 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Thank  Heaven,  it  was  not  teasing  her.  She  would 
resist  it,  of  course.  But  — 

What  if  Stanley  Baird  should  lose  interest?  What 
if,  after  he  lost  interest,  she  should  find  herself  without 
money,  worse  off  than  she  had  been  when  she  sold 
herself  into  slavery  —  highly  moral  and  conventionally 
correct  slavery,  but  still  slavery  —  to  the  little  general 
with  the  peaked  pink-silk  nightcap  hiding  the  absence 
of  the  removed  toupee  —  and  with  the  wronderf ul 
pink-silk  pajamas,  gorgeously  monogramed  in  violet  — 
and  the  tiny  feet  and  ugly  hands  —  and  those  loath 
some  needle-pointed  mustaches  and  the  hideous  habit  of 
mumbling  his  tongue  and  smacking  his  lips?  What 
if,  moneyless,  she  should  not  be  able  to  find  another 
Stanley  or  a  man  of  the  class  gentleman  willing  to 
help  her  generously  even  on  any  terms?  What 
then? 

She  was  looking  out  over  the  sea,  her  bank-book  and 
statements  and  canceled  checks  in  her  lap.  Their  cot 
tage  was  at  the  very  edge  of  the  strand;  its  veranda 
was  often  damp  from  spray  after  a  storm.  It  was  not 
storming  as  she  sat  there,  "  taking  stock " ;  under  a 
blue  sky  an  almost  tranquil  sea  was  crooning  softly  in 
the  sunlight,  innocent  and  happy  and  playful  as  a  child. 
She,  dressed  in  a  charming  negligee  and  looking  for 
ward  to  a  merry  day  in  the  auto,  with  lunch  and  dinner 
at  attractive,  luxurious  places  farther  down  the  coast  — 
she  was  stricken  with  a  horrible  sadness,  with  a  terror 
that  made  her  heart  beat  wildly. 

"  I  must  be  crazy !  "  she  said,  half  aloud.  "  I've 
never  earned  a  dollar  with  my  voice.  And  for  two 

200 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


months  it  has  been  unreliable.  I'm  acting  like  a  crazy 
person.  What  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

Just  then  Stanley  Baird  came  through  the  pretty  little 
house,  seeking  her.  "  There  you  are !  "  he  cried.  "  Do 
go  get  dressed." 

Hastily  she  flung  a  scarf  over  the  book  and  papers 
in  her  lap.  She  had  intended  to  speak  to  him  about 
that  fresh  deposit  of  five  thousand  dollars  —  to  refuse 
it?  to  rebuke  him.  Now  she  did  not  dare. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  went  on.     "  Headache?  " 

"  It  was  the  wine  at  dinner  last  night,"  explained  she. 
"  I  ought  never  to  touch  red  wine.  It  disagrees  with 
me  horribly." 

"  That  was  filthy  stuff,"  said  he.  "  You  must  take 
some  champagne  at  lunch.  That'll  set  you  right." 

She  stealthily  wound  the  scarf  about  the  papers. 
When  she  felt  that  all  were  secure  she  rose.  She  was 
looking  sweet  and  sad  and  peculiarly  beautiful.  There 
was  an  exquisite  sheen  on  her  skin.  She  had  washed 
her  hair  that  morning,  and  it  was  straying  fascinatingly 
about  her  brow  and  ears  and  neck.  Baird  looked  at 
her,  lowered  his  eyes  and  colored. 

"  I'll  not  be  long,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

She  had  to  pass  him  in  the  rather  narrow  doorway. 
From  her  garments  shook  a  delicious  perfume.  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  The  blood  had  flushed  into  his 
face  in  a  torrent,  swelling  out  the  veins,  giving  him 
a  distorted  and  wild  expression. 

"  Mildred ! "  he  cried.  "  Say  that  you  love  me  a 
little !  I'm  so  lonely  for  you  —  so  hungry  for  you !  " 

She  grew  cold  with  fear  and  with  repulsion.  She 
201 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


neither  yielded  to  his  embrace  nor  shook  it  off.  She 
simply  stood,  her  round  smooth  body  hard  though  corset- 
less.  He  kissed  her  on  the  throat,  kissed  the  lace  over 
her  bosom,  crying1  out  inarticulately.  In  the  frenzy  of 
his  passion  he  did  not  for  a  while  realize  her  lack  of 
response.  As  he  felt  it,  his  arms  relaxed,  dropped  away 
from  her,  fell  at  his  side.  He  hung  his  head.  He  was 
breathing  so  heavily  that  she  glanced  into  the  house 
apprehensively,  fearing  someone  else  might  hear. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  he  muttered.  "  You  were  too  much 
for  me  this  morning.  It  was  your  fault.  You  are 
maddening !  " 

She  moved  on  into  the  house. 

"  Wait  a  minute !  "  he  called  after  her. 

She  halted,,  hesitating. 

"  Come  back,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  something  to  say 
to  you." 

She  turned  and  went  back  to  the  veranda,  he  retreat 
ing  before  her  and  his  eyes  sinking  before  the  cold, 
clear  blue  of  hers. 

"  You're  going  up,  not  to  come  down  again,"  he  said. 
"  You  think  I've  insulted  you  —  think  I've  acted  out 
rageously." 

How  glad  she  was  that  he  had  so  misread  her  thoughts 
—  had  not  discovered  the  fear,  the  weakness,  the  sudden 
collapse  of  all  her  boasted  confidence  in  her  strength  of 
character. 

"  You'll  never  feel  the  same  toward  me  again,"  he 
went  fatuously  on.  "  You  think  I'm  a  fraud.  Well, 
I'll  admit  that  I  am  in  love  with  you  —  have  been  ever 
since  the  steamer  —  always  was  crazy  about  that  mouth 

202 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


of  yours  —  and  your  figure,  and  the  sound  of  your 
voice.  I'll  admit  I'm  an  utter  fool  about  you  —  respect 
you  and  trust  you  as  I  never  used  to  think  any  woman 
deserved  to  be  respected  and  trusted.  I'll  even  admit 
that  I've  been  hoping  —  all  sorts  of  things.  I  knew 
a  woman  like  you  wouldn't  let  a  man  help  her  unless 
she  loved  him." 

At  this  her  heart  beat  wildly  and  a  blush  of  shame 
poured  over  her  face  and  neck.  He  did  not  see.  He 
had  not  the  courage  to  look  at  her  —  to  face  that 
expression  of  the  violated  goddess  he  felt  confident  her 
face  was  wearing.  In  love,  he  reasoned  and  felt  about 
her  like  an  inexperienced  boy,  all  his  experience  going 
for  nothing.  He  went  on: 

"  I  understand  we  can  never  be  anything  to  each  other 
until  you're  on  the  stage  and  arrived.  I'd  not  have  it 
otherwise,  if  I  could.  For  I  want  you-,  and  I'd  never 
believe  I  had  you  unless  you  were  free." 

The  color  was  fading  from  her  cheeks.  At  this  it 
flushed  deeper  than  before.  She  must  speak.  Not  to 
speak  was  to  lie,  was  to  play  the  hypocrite.  Yet  speak 
she  dared  not.  At  least  Stanley  Baird  was  better  than 
Siddall.  Anyhow,  who  was  she,  that  had  been  the  wife 
of  Siddall,  to  be  so  finicky? 

"  You  don't  believe  me?  "  he  said  miserably.  "  You 
think  I'll  forget  myself  sometime  again  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  said  gently.  "  I  believe  not.  I 
trust  you,  Stanley." 

And  she  went  into  the  house.  He  looked  after  her, 
in  admiration  of  the  sweet  and  pure  calm  of  this  quiet 
rebuke.  She  tried  to  take  the  same  exalted  view  of  it 

203 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


herself,  but  she  could  not  fool  herself  just  then  with 
the  familiar  "  good  woman  "  fake.  She  knew  that  she 
had  struck  the  flag  of  self-respect.  She  knew  what  she 
would  really  have  done  had  he  been  less  delicate,  less 
in  love,  and  more  "  practical."  And  she  found  a  small 
and  poor  consolation  in  reflecting,  "  I  wonder  how  many 
women  there  are  who  take  high  ground  because  it  costs 
nothing."  We  are  prone  to  suspect  everybody  of  any 
weakness  we  find  in  ourselves  —  and  perhaps  we  are  not 
so  far  wrong  as  are  those  who  accept  without  question 
the  noisy  protestations  of  a  world  of  self -deceivers. 
Thenceforth  she  and  Stanley  got  on  better  than  ever 

—  apparently.     But  though  she  ignored  it,  she  knew 
the  truth  —  knew  her  new  and  deep  content  was  due  to 
her  not  having  challenged  his  assertion  that  she  loved 
him.     He,    believing    her    honest    and    high    minded,, 
assumed    that    the    failure   to    challenge    was    a    good 
woman's  way  of  admitting.     But  with  the  day  of  reck 
oning —  not  only  with  him  but  also  with  her  own  self- 
respect  —  put  off  until  that  vague  and  remote  time  when 
she  should  be  a  successful  prima  donna,  she  gave  herself 
up  to  enjoyment.     That  was  a  summer  of  rarely  fine 
weather,  particularly  fine  along  the  Jersey  coast.     They 

—  always  in  gay  parties  —  motored  up  and  down  the 
coast  and  inland.      Several  of  the  "  musical "   men  — 
notably  Richardson  of  Elberon  —  had  plenty  of  money ; 
Stanley,  stopping  with  his  cousins,  the  Frasers,  on  the 
Rumson  Road,  brought  several  of  his  friends,  all  rich 
and  more  or  less  free.     As  every  moment  of  Mildred's 
day  was  full  and  as  it  was  impossible  not  to  sleep  and 
sleep  well  in  that  ocean  air,  with  the  surf  soothing  the 

204 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


nerves  as  the  lullaby  of  a  nurse  soothes  a  baby,  she  was 
able  to  put  everything  unpleasant  out  of  mind.  She 
was  resting  her  voice,  was  building  up  her  health; 
therefore  the  career  was  being  steadily  advanced  and  no 
time  was  being  wasted.  She  felt  sorry  for  those  who 
had  to  do  unpleasant  or  disagreeable  things  in  making 
their  careers.  She  told  herself  that  she  did  not  deserve 
her  good  fortune  in  being  able  to  advance  to  a  brilliant 
career  not  through  hardship  but  over  the  most  delight 
ful  road  imaginable  —  amusing  herself ?  wearing  charm 
ing  and  satisfactory  clothes,  swimming  and  dancing, 
motoring  and  feasting.  Without  realizing  it,  she  was 
strongly  under  the  delusion  that  she  was  herself  already 
rich  —  the  inevitable  delusion  with  a  woman  when  she 
moves  easily  and  freely  and  luxuriously  about,  never 
bothered  for  money,  always  in  the  company  of  rich  peo 
ple.  The  rich  are  fated  to  demoralize  those  around 
them.  The  stingy  rich  fill  their  satellites  with  envy  and 
hatred.  The  generous  rich  fill  them  with  the  feeling 
that  the  light  by  which  they  shine  and  the  heat  with 
which  they  are  warm  are  not  reflected  light  and  heat 
but  their  own. 

Never  had  she  been  so  happy.  She  even  did  not  espe 
cially  mind  Donald  Keith,  a  friend  of  Stanley's  and  of 
Mrs.  Brindley's,  who,  much  too  often  to  suit  her,  made 
one  of  the  party.  She  had  tried  in  vain  to  discover 
what  there  was  in  Keith  that  inspired  such  intense  liking 
in  two  people  so  widely  different  as  expansive  and  emo 
tional  Stanley  Baird  and  reserved  and  distinctly  cold 
Cyrilla  Brindley.  Keith  talked  little,  not  only  seemed 
not  to  listen  well,  but  showed  plainly,  even  in  tete-a-tete 

205 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


conversations,  that  his  thoughts  had  been  elsewhere. 
He  made  no  pretense  of  being  other  than  he  was  —  an 
indifferent  man  who  came  because  it  did  not  especially 
matter  to  him  where  he  was.  Sometimes  his  silence  and 
his  indifference  annoyed  Mildred ;  again  —  thanks  to 
her  profound  and  reckless  contentment  —  she  was  able 
to  forget  that  he  was  along.  He  seemed  to  be  and  prob 
ably  was  about  forty  years  old.  His  head  was  beauti 
fully  shaped,  the  line  of  its  profile  —  front,  top,  and 
back  —  being  perfect  in  intellectuality,  strength  and 
symmetry.  He  was  rather  under  the  medium  height, 
about  the  same  height  as  Mildred  herself.  He  was  ex 
tremely  thin  and  loosely  built,  and  his  clothes  seemed 
to  hang  awry,  giving  him  an  air  of  slovenliness  which 
became  surprising  when  one  noted  how  scrupulously 
neat  and  clean  he  was.  His  brown  hair,  considerably 
tinged  with  rusty  gray,  grew  thinly  upon  that  beautiful 
head.  His  skin  was  dry  and  smooth  and  dead  white. 
This,  taken  with  the  classic  regularity  of  his  features, 
gave  him  an  air  of  lifelessness,  of  one  burnt  out  by  the 
fire  of  too  much  living ;  but  whether  the  living  had  been 
done  by  Keith  himself  or  by  his  immediate  ancestors 
appearances  did  not  disclose.  This  look  of  passionless, 
motionless  repose,  like  classic  sculpture,  was  sharply  and 
startlingly  belied  by  a  pair  of  really  wonderful  eyes  — 
deeply  and  intensely  blue,  brilliant,  all  seeing,  all  com 
prehending,  eyes  that  seemed  never  to  sleep,  seemed  the 
ceaselessly  industrious  servants  of  a  brain  that  busied 
itself  without  pause.  The  contrast  between  the  dead- 
white  calm  of  his  face,  the  listlessness  of  his  relaxed 
figure,  and  these  vivid  eyes,  so  intensely  alive,  gave  to 

206 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Donald  Keith's  personality  an  uncanniness  that  was 
most  disagreeable  to  Mildred. 

"  That's  what  fascinates  me,"  said  Cyrilla,  when  they 
were  discussing  him  one  day. 

"Fascinates!"  exclaimed  Mildred.  "He's  tire 
some  —  when  he  isn't  rude." 

"Rude?" 

"  Not  actively  rude  but,  worse  still,  passively  rude." 

"  He  is  the  only  man  I've  ever  seen  with  whom  I  could 
imagine  myself  falling  in  love,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 

Mildred  laughed  in  derision.  "  Why,  he's  a  dead 
man !  "  cried  she. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  You've 
never  lived  with  a  man."  She  forgot  completely,  as  did 
Mildred  herself,  so  completely  had  Mrs.  Siddall  returned 
to  the  modes  and  thoughts  of  a  girl.  "  At  home  —  to 
live  with  —  you  want  only  reposeful  things.  That  is 
why  the  Greeks,  whose  instincts  were  unerring,  had  so 
much  reposeful  statuary.  One  grows  weary  of  agi 
tating  objects.  They  soon  seem  hysterical  and  shal 
low.  The  same  thing's  true  of  persons.  For  perma 
nent  love  and  friendship  you  want  reposeful  men  — 
calm,  strong,  silent.  The  other  kind  either  wear  you 
out  or  wear  themselves  out  with  you." 

"  You  forget  his  eyes,"  put  in  Stanley.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  such  eyes !  " 

"Yes,  those  eyes  of  his!"  cried  Mildred.  "You 
certainly  can't  call  them  reposeful,  Mrs.  Brindley." 

Mrs.  Brindley  did  not  seize  the  opportunity  to  con 
vict  her  of  inconsistency.  Said  she: 

"  I  admit  the  eyes.  They're  the  eyes  of  the  kind  of 
207 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


man  a  woman  wants,  or  another  man  wants  in  his  friend. 
When  Keith  looks  at  you,  you  feel  that  you  are  seeing 
the  rarest  being  in  the  world  —  an  absolutely  reliable 
person.  When  I  think  of  him  I  think  of  reliable,  just 
as  when  you  think  of  the  sun  you  think  of  bright 
ness." 

"  I  had  110  idea  it  was  so  serious  as  this,"  teased 
Stanley. 

"  Nor  had  I,"  returned  Cyrilla  easily,  "  until  I  began 
to  talk  about  him.  Don't  tell  him,  Mr.  Baird,  or  he 
might  take  advantage  of  me." 

The  idea  amused  Stanley.  "  He  doesn't  care  a  rap 
about  women,"  said  he.  "  I  hear  he  has  let  a  few  care 
about  him  from  time  to  time,  but  he  soon  ceased  to 
be  good-natured.  He  hates  to  be  bored." 

As  he  came  just  then,  they  had  to  find  another  sub 
ject.  Mildred  observed  him  with  more  interest.  She 
had  learned  to  have  respect  for  Mrs.  Brindley's  judg 
ments.  But  she  soon  gave  over  watching  him.  That 
profound  calm,  those  eyes  concentrating  all  the  life  of 
the  man  like  a  burning  glass  —  She  had  a  disagree 
able  sense  of  being  seen  through,  even  to  her  secretest 
thought,  of  being  understood  and  measured  and  weighed 
—  and  found  wanting.  It  occurred  to  her  for  the  first 
time  that  part  of  the  reason  for  her  not  liking  him 
was  the  best  of  reasons  —  that  he  did  not  like  her. 

The  first  time  she  was  left  alone  with  him,  after  this 
discovery,  she  happened  to  be  in  an  audacious  and 
talkative  mood,  and  his  lack  of  response  finally  goaded 
her  into  saying:  "  Why  don't  you  like  me?  "  She  cared 
nothing  about  it;  she  simply  wished  to  hear  what  he 

208 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


would  say  —  if  he  could  be  roused  into  saying  any 
thing.  He  was  sitting  on  the  steps  leading  from  the 
veranda  to  the  sea  —  was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  gaz 
ing  out  over  the  waves  like  a  graven  image,  as  if  he 
had  always  been  posed  there  and  always  would  be  there, 
the  embodiment  of  repose  gazing  in  ineffable  indiffer 
ence  upon  the  embodiment  of  its  opposite.  He  made 
no  answer. 

"  I  asked  you  why  you  do  not  like  me,"  said  she. 
"  Did  you  hear?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  he. 

She  waited ;  nothing  further  from  him.     Said  she : 

66  Well,  give  me  one  of  your  cigarettes." 

He  rose,  extended  his  case,  then  a  light.  He  was 
never  remiss  in  those  kinds  of  politeness.  When  she 
was  smoking,  he  seated  himself  again  and  dropped  into 
the  former  attitude.  She  eyed  him,  wondering  how  it 
could  be  possible  that  he  had  endured  the  incredible 
fatigues  and  hardships  Stanley  Baird  had  related  of 
him  —  hunting  and  exploring  expeditions  into  tropics 
and  into  frozen  regions,  mountain  climbs,  wild  sea  voy 
ages  in  small  boats,  all  with  no  sign  of  being  able  to 
stand  anything,  yet  also  with  no  sign  of  being  any 
more  disturbed  than  now  in  this  seaside  laziness.  Stan 
ley  had  showed  them  a  picture  of  him  taken  twenty  years 
and  more  ago  when  he  was  in  college ;  he  had  looked 
almost  the  same  then  —  perhaps  a  little  older. 

"  Well,  I  am  waiting,"  persisted  she. 

She  thought  he  was  about  to  look  at  her  —  a  thing 
he  had  never  done,  to  her  knowledge,  since  they  had 
known  each  other.  She  nerved  herself  to  receive  the 

209 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


shock,  with  a  certain  flutter  of  expectancy,  of  excite 
ment  even.  But  instead  of  looking,  he  settled  himself 
in  a  slightly  different  position  and  fixed  his  gaze  upon 
another  point  in  the  horizon.  She  noted  that  he  had 
splendid  hands  —  ideal  hands  for  a  man,  with  the  same 
suggestion  of  intense  vitality  and  aliveness  that  flashed 
from  his  eyes.  She  had  not  noted  this  before.  Next 
she  saw  that  he  had  good  feet,  and  that  his  boots  were 
his  only  article  of  apparel  that  fitted  him,  or  rather, 
that  looked  as  if  made  for  him. 

She  tossed  her  cigarette  over  the  rail  to  the  sand. 
He  startled  her  by  speaking,  in  his  unemotional  way. 
He  said: 

"  Now,  I  like  you  better." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  she. 

No  answer  from  him.  The  cigarette  depending  list 
lessly  from  his  lips  seemed  —  as  usual  —  uncertain 
whether  it  would  stay  or  fall.  She  watched  this  uncer 
tainty  with  a  curious,  nervous  interest.  She  was  always 
thinking  that  cigarette  would  fall,  but  it  never  did. 
Said  she: 

"  Why  did  you  say  you  liked  me  less  ?  " 

"  Better,"  corrected  he. 

"  We  used  to  have  a  pump  in  our  back  yard  at  home," 
laughed  she.  "  One  toiled  away  at  the  handle,  but 
nothing  ever  came.  And  it  was  a  promising-looking 
pump,  too." 

He  smiled  —  a  slow,  reluctant  smile,  but  undeniably 
attractive.  Said  he: 

"  Because  you  threw  away  your  cigarette." 

"  You  object  to  women  smoking?  " 
210 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  No,"  said  he.  His  tone  made  her  feel  how  absurd 
it  was  to  suspect  him  of  such  provincialism. 

"  You  object  to  my  smoking?  "  suggested  she;  laugh 
ing,  "  Pump !  Pump  !  " 

"  No,"  said  he. 

"  Then  your  remark  meant  nothing  at  all  ?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  You  are  rude,"  said  she  coldly,  rising  to  go  into 
the  house. 

He  said  something,  what  she  did  not  hear,  in  her  agi 
tation.  She  paused  and  inquired: 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  said,  I  am  not  rude  but  kind,"  replied  he. 

"  That  is  detestable !  "  cried  she.  "  I  have  not  liked 
you,  but  I  have  been  polite  to  you  because  of  Stanley 
and  Mrs.  Brindley.  Why  should  you  be  insulting  to 
me?" 

"  What  have  I  done?  "  inquired  he,  unmoved.  He 
had  risen  as  she  rose,  but  instead  of  facing  her  he  was 
leaning  against  the  post  of  the  veranda,  bent  upon  his 
seaward  vigil. 

"  You  have  insinuated  that  your  reasons  for  not  liking 
me  were  a  reflection  on  me." 

"  You  insisted,"  said  he. 

"  You  mean  that  they  are?  "  demanded  she  furiously. 
She  was  amazed  at  her  wild,  unaccountable  rage. 

He  slowly  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her  —  a 
glance  without  any  emotion  whatever,  simply  a  look 
that,  like  the  beam  of  a  powerful  searchlight,  seemed 
to  thrust  through  fog  and  darkness  and  to  light  up 
everything  in  its  path.  Said  he: 

211 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  why  I  don't  like  you  ?  " 
"  No !  "    she    cried   hysterically.     "  Never    mind  —  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  saying."     And  she  went  hastily 
into  the  house.     A  moment  later,  in  her  own  room  up 
stairs,   she  was   wondering   at  herself.     Why   had   she 
become  confused?     What  did  he  mean?     What  had  she 
seen  —  or  half  seen  —  in  the  darkness  and  fog  within 
herself  when  he  looked  at  her?     In  a  passion  she  cried: 
"  If  he  would  only  stay  away ! " 


212 


VI 

BUT  he  did  not  stay  away.  He  owned  and  lived  in 
a  small  house  up  on  the  Rumson  Road.  While  the 
house  was  little  more  than  a  bungalow  and  had  a  sim 
plicity  that  completely  hid  its  rare  good  taste  from  the 
average  observer,  its  grounds  were  the  most  spacious  in 
that  neighborhood  of  costly,  showy  houses  set  in  grounds 
not  much  more  extensive  than  a  city  building  lot.  The 
grounds  had  been  cleared  and  drained  to  drive  out  and 
to  keep  out  the  obnoxious  insect  life,  but  had  been  left 
a  forest,  concealing  the  house  from  the  roads.  Stanley 
Baird  was  now  stopping  with  Keith,  and  brought  him 
along  to  the  cottage  by  the  sea  every  day. 

The  parties  narrowed  to  the  same  four  persons.  Mrs. 
Brindley  seemed  never  to  tire  of  talking  to  Keith  — 
or  to  tire  of  talking  about  him  when  the  two  men  had 
left,  late  each  night.  As  for  Stanley,  he  referred  every 
thing  to  Keith  —  the  weather  prospects,  where  they 
should  go  for  the  day,  what  should  be  eaten  and  drunk, 
any  point  about  politics  or  fashion,  life  or  literature 
or  what  not,  that  happened  to  be  discussed.  And  he 
looked  upon  Donald's  monosyllabic  reply  to  his  inquiry 
as  a  final  judgment,  ending  all  possibility  of  argument. 
Mildred  held  out  long.  Then,  in  spite  of  herself,  she 
began  to  yield,  ceased  to  dislike  him,  found  a  kind  of 
pleasure  —  or,  perhaps,  fascinated  interest  —  in  the 

213 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


nervousness  his  silent  and  indifferent  presence  caused 
her.  She  liked  to  watch  that  immobile,  perfect  profile, 
neither  young  nor  old,  indeed  not  suggesting  age  in 
any  degree,  but  only  experience  and  knowledge  —  and 
an  infinite  capacity  for  emotion,  for  passion  even.  The 
dead-white  color  declared  it  had  already  been  lived; 
the  brilliant,  usually  averted  or  veiled  eyes  asserted 
present  vitality,  pulsing  under  a  calm  surface. 

One  day  when  Stanley,  in  the  manner  of  one  who 
wishes  a  thing  settled  and  settled  right,  said  he  would 
ask  Donald  Keith  about  it,  Mildred,  a  little  piqued, 
a  little  amused,  retorted: 

"  And  what  will  he  answer  ?     Why,  simply  yes  or  no." 

"  That's  all,"  assented  Stanley.  "  And  that's  quite 
enough,  isn't  it?" 

"  But  how  do  you  know  he's  as  wise  as  he  pretends  ?  " 

"  He  doesn't  pretend  to  be  anything  or  to  know  any 
thing.  That's  precisely  it." 

Mildred  suddenly  began  to  like  Keith.  She  had  never 
thought  of  this  before.  Yes,  it  was  true,  he  did  not 
pretend.  Not  in  the  least,  not  about  anything.  When 
you  saw  him,  you  saw  at  once  the  worst  there  was  to 
see.  It  was  afterward  that  you  discovered  he  was  not 
slovenly,  but  clean  and  neat,  not  badly  but  well  dressed, 
not  homely  but  handsome,  not  sickly  but  soundly  well, 
not  physically  weak  but  strong,  not  dull  but  vividly  alive, 
not  a  tiresome  void  but  an  unfathomable  mystery. 

"  What  does  he  do?  "  she  asked  Mrs.  Brindley. 

Cyrilla's  usually  positive  gray  eyes  looked  vague. 
She  smiled.  "  I  never  asked,"  said  she.  "  I've  known 
him  nearly  three  years,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me 

214 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


to  ask,  or  to  wonder.  Isn't  that  strange?  Usually 
about  the  first  inquiry  we  make  is  what  a  man  does." 

"  I'll  ask  Stanley,"  said  Mildred.  And  she  did  about 
an  hour  later,  when  they  were  in  the  surf  together,  with 
the  other  two  out  of  earshot.  Said  Stanley : 

"  He's  a  lawyer,  of  course.  Also,  he's  written  a  novel 
or  two  and  a  book  of  poems.  I've  never  read  them. 
Somehow,  I  never  get  around  to  reading." 

"  Oh,  he's  a  lawyer?  That's  the  way  he  makes  his 
living." 

"  A  queer  kind  of  lawyer.  He  never  goes  to  court, 
and  his  clients  are  almost  all  other  lawyers.  They  go  to 
him  to  get  him  to  tell  them  what  to  do,  and  what  not 
to  do.  He's  got  a  big  reputation  among  lawyers, 
Fred  Norman  tells  me,  but  makes  comparatively  little, 
as  he  either  can't  or  won't  charge  what  he  ought.  I 
told  him  what  Norman  said,  and  he  only  smiled  in  that 
queer  way  he  has.  I  said :  *  You  make  twenty  or 
thirty  thousand  a  year.  You  ought  to  make  ten 
times  that.5 " 

"  And  what  did  he  answer?  "  asked  Mildred.  "  Noth 
ing?  " 

"  He  said :  '  I  make  all  I  want.  If  I  took  in  more,  I'd 
be  bothered  getting  rid  of  it  or  investing  it.  I  can 
always  make  all  I'll  want  —  unless  I  go  crazy.  And 
what  could  a  crazy  man  do  with  money  ?  It  doesn't  cost 
anything  to  live  in  a  lunatic  asylum.'  " 

Several  items  of  interest  to  add  to  those  she  had  col 
lected.  He  could  talk  brilliantly,  but  he  preferred 
silence.  He  could  make  himself  attractive  to  women 
and  to  men,  but  he  preferred  to  be  detached.  He  could 

215 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


be  a  great  lawyer,  but  he  preferred  the  quiet  of  obscur 
ity.  He  could  be  a  rich  man,  but  he  preferred  to  be 
comparatively  poor. 

Said  Mildred :  "  I  suppose  some  woman  —  some  dis 
appointment  in  love  —  has  killed  ambition,  and  every 
thing  like  that." 

"  I  don't  think  so/'  replied  Baird.  "  The  men  who 
knew  him  as  a  boy  say  he  was  always  as  he  is  now.  He 
lived  in  the  Arabian  desert  for  two  years." 

"Why  didn't  he  stay?"  laughed  Mildred.  "That 
life  would  exactly  suit  him." 

"  It  did,"  said  Stanley.  "  But  his  father  died,  and 
he  had  to  come  home  and  support  his  mother  —  until 
she  died.  That's  the  way  his  whole  life  has  been. 
He  drifts  in  the  current  of  circumstances.  He  might 
let  himself  be  blown  away  to-morrow  to  the  other  end 
of  the  earth  and  stay  away  years  —  or  never  come 
back." 

"  But  how  would  he  live?  " 

"  On  his  wits.  And  as  well  or  as  poorly  as  he  cared. 
He's  the  sort  of  man  everyone  instinctively  asks  advice 
of  —  me,  you,  his  valet,  the  farmer  who  meets  him  at 
a  boundary  fence,  the  fellow  who  sits  next  him  in  a 
train  —  anyone." 

Mildred  did  not  merely  cease  to  dislike  him ;  she  went 
farther,  and  rapidly.  She  began  to  like  him,  to  circle 
round  that  tantalizing,  indolent  mystery  as  a  deer  about 
a  queer  bit  of  brush  in  the  undergrowth.  She  liked 
to  watch  him.  She  was  alternately  afraid  to  talk  before 
him  and  recklessly  confidential  —  all  with  no  response 
or  sign  of  interest  from  him.  If  she  was  silent,  when 

216 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


they  were  alone  together,  he  was  silent,  too.  If  she 
talked,  still  he  was  silent.  What  was  he  thinking  about  ? 
What  did  he  think  of  her?  —  that  especially. 

"  What  are  you  thinking?  "  she  interrupted  herself 
to  say  one  afternoon  as  they  sat  together  on  the  strand 
under  a  big  sunshade.  She  had  been  talking  on  and  on 
about  her  career  —  talking  conceitedly,  as  her  subject 
intoxicated  her  —  telling  him  what  triumphs  awaited 
her  as  soon  as  she  should  be  ready  to  debut.  As  he 
did  not  answer,  she  repeated  her  question,  adding: 

"  I  knew  you  weren't  listening  to  me,  or  I  shouldn't 
have  had  the  courage  to  say  the  foolish  things  I  did." 

"  No,  I  wasn't,"  admitted  he. 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  the  reason  you  gave." 

"  That  what  I  said  was  —  just  talk?  " 

"  Yes." 

"You  don't  believe  I'll  do  those  things?" 

"Do  you?" 

"  I've  got  to  believe  it,"  said  she.  "  If  I  didn't  — " 
She  came  to  a  full  stop. 

"  If  you  didn't,  then  what?  "  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  flattered  her  with  interest  enough  to  ask 
her  a  question  about  herself. 

"  If  I  didn't  believe  I  was  going  to  succeed  —  and 
succeed  big — "  she  began.  After  a  pause,  she  added, 
"  I'd  not  dare  say  it." 

"  Or  think  it,"  said  he. 

She  colored.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Keith?  "  she  urged. 
217 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  are  always  asking  me  questions  to  which  you 
already  know  the  answer,"  said  he. 

"  You're  referring  to  a  week  or  so  ago,  when  I  asked 
you  why  you  disliked  me  ?  " 

No  answer.  No  sign  of  having  heard.  No  outward 
sign  of  interest  in  anything,  even  in  the  cigarette  droop 
ing  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Wasn't  that  it?"  she  insisted. 

"  You  are  always  asking  me  questions  to  which  you 
already  know  the  answer,"  repeated  he. 

"  I  am  annoying  you  ?  " 

No  answer. 

She  laughed.  "  Do  you  want  me  to  go  away  and 
leave  you  in  peace  with  that  —  law  case  —  or  whatever 
it  is?" 

"  I  don't  like  to  be  alone." 

"  But  anyone  would  do?  —  a  dog?  " 

No  reply. 

"  You  mean,  a  dog  would  be  better  because  it  doesn't 
ask  questions  to  which  it  knows  the  answer." 

No  reply. 

"  Well,  I  have  a  pleasant-sounding  voice.  As  I'm 
saying  nothing,  it  may  be  soothing  —  like  the  sound  of 
the  waves.  I've  learned  to  take  you  as  you  are.  I 
rather  like  your  pose." 

No  reply.  No  sign  that  he  was  even  tempted  to  rise 
to  this  bait  and  protest. 

"  But  you  don't  like  mine,"  she  went  on.  "  Yes,  it 
is  a  pose.  But  I've  got  to  keep  it  up,  and  to  pretend 
to  myself  that  it  isn't.  And  it  isn't  altogether.  I  shall 
be  a  successful  singer." 

218 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  When  ?  "  said  he.     Actually  he  was  listening ! 

She  answered :  "In  —  about  two  years,  I  think." 

No  comment. 

"You  don't  believe  it?" 

"Do  you?"  A  pause.  "Why  ask  these  questions 
you've  already  answered  yourself?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  why,"  replied  she,  her  face  suddenly 
flushed  with  earnestness.  "  Because  I  want  you  to  help 
me.  You  help  everyone  else.  Why  not  me?  " 

"  You  never  asked  me,"  said  he. 

"  I  didn't  know  I  wanted  it  until  just  now  —  as  I 
said  it.  But  you  must  have  known,  because  you  are 
so  much  more  experienced  than  I  —  and  understand 
people  —  what's  going  on  in  their  minds,  deeper  than 
they  can  see."  Her  tone  became  indignant,  reproach 
ful.  "  Yes,  you  must  have  known  I  needed  your  help. 
And  you  ought  to  have  helped  me,  even  if  you  did  dis 
like  me.  You've  no  right  to  dislike  anyone  as  young 
as  I." 

He  was  looking  at  her  now,  the  intensely  alive  blue 
eyes  sympathetic,  penetrating,  understanding.  It  was 
frightful  to  be  so  thoroughly  understood  —  all  one's 
weaknesses  laid  bare  —  yet  it  was  a  relief  and  a  joy,  too 
—  like  the  cruel  healing  knife  of  the  surgeon.  Said  he : 

"  I  do  not  like  kept  women." 

She  gasped,  grew  ghastly.  It  was  a  frightful  insult, 
one  for  which  she  was  wholly  unprepared.  "  You  — 
believe  —  that?  "  she  said  slowly. 

"  Another  of  those  questions,"  he  said.  And  he 
looked  calmly  away,  out  over  the  sea,  as  if  his  interest 
in  the  conversation  were  at  an  end. 

219 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


What  should  she  say  ?  How  deny  —  how  convince 
him?  For  convince  him  she  must,  and  then  go  away 
and  never  permit  him  to  speak  to  her  again  until  he  had 
apologized.  She  said  quietly :  "  Mr.  Keith,  you  have 
insulted  me." 

"  I  do  not  like  kept  women,  either  with  or  without 
a  license,"  said  he  in  the  same  even,  indifferent  way. 
"  When  you  ceased  to  be  a  kept  woman,  I  would  help 
you,  if  I  could.  But  no  one  can  help  a  kept  woman." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  rise  and  go  away. 
She  rose  and  went  toward  the  house.  At  the  veranda 
she  paused.  He  had  not  moved.  She  returned.  He 
was  still  inspecting  the  horizon,  the  cigarette  depend 
ing  from  his  lips  —  how  did  he  keep  it  alight  ?  She 
said: 

"  Mr.  Keith,  I  am  sure  you  did  not  mean  to  insult 
me.  What  did  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Another  of  those  questions,"  said  he. 

"  Honestly,  I  do  not  understand." 

66  Then  think.  And  when  you  have  thought,  you 
will  understand." 

"  But  I  have  thought.     I  do  not  understand." 

"  Then  it  would  be  useless  to  explain,"  said  he. 
"  That  is  one  of  those  vital  things  which,  if  one  cannot 
understand  them  for  oneself,  one  is  hopeless  —  is  beyond 
helping." 

"  You  mean  I  am  not  in  earnest  about  my  career?  " 

"  Another  of  those  questions.  If  you  had  not  seen 
clearly  what  I  meant,  you  would  have  been  really 
offended.  You'd  have  gone  away  and  not  come 
back." 

220 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


She  saw  that  this  was  true.  And*,  seeing,  she  won 
dered  how  she  could  have  been  so  stupid  as  not  to  have 
seen  it  at  once.  She  had  yet  to  learn  that  overlooking 
the  obvious  is  a  universal  human  failing  and  that  seeing 
the  obvious  is  the  talent  and  the  use  of  the  superior 
of  earth  —  the  few  who  dominate  and  determine  the 
race. 

"  You  reproach  me  for  not  having  helped  you,"  he 
went  on.  "  How  does  it  happen  that  you  are  uneasy 
in  mind  —  so  uneasy  that  you  are  quarreling  at  me?  " 

A  light  broke  upon  her.  "  You  have  been  drawing 
me  on,  from  the  beginning,"  she  cried.  "  You  have 
been  helping  me  —  making  me  see  that  I  needed 
help." 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  I've  been  waiting  to  see  whether 
you  would  rouse  from  your  dream  of  grandeur." 

"  You  have  been  rousing  me." 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  You've  roused  yourself.  So  you 
may  be  worth  helping  or,  rather,  worth  encouraging, 
for  no  one  can  help  you  but  yourself." 

She  looked  at  him  pathetically.  "  But  what  shall  I 
do  ?  "  she  asked.  "'I've  got  no  money,  no  experience, 
no  sense.  I'm  a  vain,  luxury-loving  fool,  cursed  with 
a  —  with  a  —  is  it  a  conscience?" 

"  I  hope  it's  something  more  substantial.  I  hope 
it's  common  sense." 

"  But  I  have  been  working  —  honestly  I  have." 

"  Don't  begin  lying  to  yourself  again." 

"  Don't  be  harsh  with  me." 

He  drew  in  his  legs,  in  preparation  for  rising  —  no 
doubt  to  go  away. 

221 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  don't  mean  that,"  she  cried  testily.  "  You  are 
not  harsh  with  me.  It's  the  truth  that's  harsh  —  the 
truth  I'm  beginning  to  see  —  and  feel.  I  am  afraid  — 
afraid.  I  haven't  the  courage  to  face  it." 

"  Why  whine?  "  said  he.     "  There's  nothing  in  that." 

"  Do  you  think  there's  any  hope  for  me?  " 

"  That  depends/'  said  he. 

"  On  what?  " 

"  On   what  you  want." 

"  I  want  to  be  a  singer,  a  great  singer." 

"  No,  there's  no  hope." 

She  grew  cold  with  despair.  He  had  a  way  of  say 
ing  a  thing  that  gave  it  the  full  weight  of  a  verdict 
from  which  there  was  no  appeal. 

"  Now,  if  you  wanted  to  make  a  living,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  if  you  were  determined  to  learn  to  sing  as  well 
as  you  could,  with  the  idea  that  you  might  be  able  to 
make  a  living  —  why,  then  there  might  be  hope." 

"  You  think  I  can  sing?  " 

"  I  never  heard  you.     Can  you  ?  " 

"  They  say  I  can." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  confessed.  "  I've  never  been 
able  to  judge.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  singing  well,  and 
I  find  out  afterward  that  I've  sung  badly.  Again,  it's 
the  other  way." 

"  Then,  obviously,  what's  the  first  thing  to  do?  " 

"  To  learn  to  judge  myself,"  said  she.  "  I  never 
thought  of  it  before  —  how  important  that  is.  Do  you 
know  Jennings  —  Eugene  Jennings  ?  " 

"The  singing  teacher?     No." 
222 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Is  he  a  good  teacher?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Because  he  has  not  taught  you  that  you  will  never 
sing  until  you  are  your  own  teacher.  Because  he  has 
not  taught  you  that  singing  is  a  small  and  minor  part 
of  a  career  as  a  singer." 

"  But  it  isn't,"  protested  she. 

A  long  silence.  Looking  at  him,  she  felt  that  he  had 
dismissed  her  and  her  affairs  from  his  mind. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  she  said,  to  bring  him  back. 

"What?"  asked  he  vaguely. 

"  You  said  that  a  singer  didn't  have  to  be  able  to 
sing." 

"  Did  I  ?  "  He  glanced  down  the  shore  toward  the 
house.  "  It  feels  like  lunch-time."  He  rose. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  what  you  said?" 

"  When  you  have  thought  about  your  case  a  while 
longer,  we'll  talk  of  it  again  —  if  you  wish.  But  until 
you've  thought,  talking  is  a  waste  of  time." 

She  rose,  stood  staring  out  to  sea.  He  was  observ 
ing  her,  a  faint  smile  about  his  lips.  He  said: 

"  Why  bother  about  a  career?  After  all,  kept 
woman  is  a  thoroughly  respectable  occupation  —  or  can 
be  made  so  by  any  preacher  or  justice  of  the  peace. 
It's  followed  by  many  of  our  best  women  —  those  who 
pride  themselves  on  their  high  characters  —  and  on 
their  pride." 

"  I  could  not  belong  to  a  man  unless  I  cared  for  him," 
said  she.  "  I  tried  it  once.  I  shall  never  do  it  again." 

"  That  sounds  fine,"  said  he.  "  Let's  go  to  lunch." 
223 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  don't  believe  me?  " 

"Do  you?" 

She  sank  down  upon  the  sand  and  burst  into  a  wild 
passion  of  sobs  and  tears.  When  her  fight  for  self- 
control  was  over  and  she  looked  up  to  apologize  for  her 
pitiful  exhibition  of  weakness  —  and  to  note  whether 
she  had  made  an  impression  upon  his  sympathies  —  she 
saw  him  just  entering  the  house,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  To  anger  succeeded  a  mood  of  desperate  for- 
lornness.  She  fell  upon  herself  with  gloomy  ferocity. 
She  could  not  sing.  She  had  no  brains.  She  was  tak 
ing  money  —  a  disgracefully  large  amount  of  money  — 
from  Stanley  Baird  under  false  pretenses.  How  could 
she  hope  to  sing  when  her  voice  could  not  be  relied  upon  ? 
Was  not  her  throat  at  that  very  moment  slightly  sore? 
Was  it  not  always  going  queer?  She  —  sing!  Ab 
surd.  Did  Stanley  Baird  suspect?  Was  he  waiting  for 
the  time  when  she  would  gladly  accept  what  she  must 
have  from  him,  on  his  own  terms?  No,  not  on  his 
terms,  but  on  the  terms  she  herself  would  arrange  — 
the  only  terms  she  could  make.  No,  Stanley  believed 
in  her  absolutely  —  believed  in  her  career.  When  he 
discovered  the  truth,  he  would  lose  interest  in  her,  would 
regard  her  as  a  poor,  worthless  creature,  would  be 
eager  to  rid  himself  of  her.  Instead  of  returning  to 
the  house,  she  went  in  the  opposite  direction,  made  a 
circuit  and  buried  herself  in  the  woods  beyond  the 
Shrewsbury.  She  was  mad  to  get  away  from  her  own 
company ;  but  the  only  company  she  could  fly  to  was 
more  depressing  than  the  solitude  and  the  taunt  and 
sneer  and  lash  of  her  own  thoughts.  It  was  late  in  the 

224 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


afternoon  before  she  nerved  herself  to  go  home.  She 
hoped  the  others  would  have  gone  off  somewhere;  but 
they  were  waiting  for  her,  Stanley  anxious  and  Cyrilla 
Brindley  irritated.  Her  eyes  sought  Keith.  He  was, 
as  usual,  the  indifferent  spectator. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  cried  Stanley. 

"  Making  up  my  mind,"  said  she  in  the  tone  that 
forewarns  of  a  storm. 

A  brief  pause.  She  struggled  in  vain  against  an 
impulse  to  look  at  Keith.  When  her  eyes  turned  in 
his  direction  he^  not  looking  at  her,  moved  in  his  listless 
way  toward  the  door.  Said  he: 

"  The  auto's  waiting.     Come  on." 

She  vacillated,  yielded,  began  to  put  on  the  wraps 
Stanley  was  collecting  for  her.  It  was  a  big  touring- 
car,  and  they  sat  two  and  two,  with  the  chauffeur  alone. 
Keith  was  beside  Mildred.  When  they  were  under  way, 
she  said: 

"  Why  did  you  stop  me  ?  Perhaps  I'll  never  have 
the  courage  again." 

"  Courage  for  what?  "  asked  he. 

"  To  take  your  advice,  and  break  off." 

"My  advice?" 

"  Yes,  your  advice." 

"  You  have  to  clutch  at  and  cling  to  somebody,  don't 
you?  You  can't  bear  the  idea  of  standing  up  by  your 
own  strength." 

"  You  think  I'm  trying  to  fasten  to  you  ?  "  she  said, 
with  an  angry  laugh. 

"  I  know  it.  You  admitted  it.  You  are  not  satisfied 
with  the  way  things  are  going.  You  have  doubts  about 

225 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


your  career.  You  shrink  from  your  only  comfortable 
alternative,  if  the  career  winks  out.  You  ask  me  my 
opinion  about  yourself  and  about  careers.  I  give  it. 
Now,  I  find  you  asked  only  that  you  might  have  some 
one  to  lean  on,  to  accuse  of  having  got  you  into  a 
mess,  if  doing  what  you  think  you  ought  to  do  turns  out 
as  badly  as  you  fear." 

It  was  the  longest  speech  she  had  heard  him  make. 
She  had  no  inclination  to  dispute  his  analysis  of  her 
motives.  "  I  did  not  realize  it,"  said  she,  "  but  that 
is  probably  so.  But  —  remember  how  I  was  brought 
up." 

"  There's  only  one  thing  for  you  to  do." 

"Go  back  to  my  husband?  You  know  —  about  me 
—  don't  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  can't  go  back  to  him." 

"  No." 

"Then  — what?"  she  asked. 

"  Go  on,  as  now,"  replied  he. 

"  You  despise  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  you  said  you  did." 

"  Dislike  and  despise  are  not  at  all  the  same." 

"  You  admit  that  you  dislike  me,"  cried  she  tri 
umphantly. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  You  think  me  a  weak,  clinging  creature,  not  able 
to  do  anything  but  make  pretenses." 

No  answer. 

"  Don't  you?  "  she  persisted. 

226 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Probably  I  have  about  the  same  opinion  of  you  that 
you  have  of  yourself." 

"  What  will  become  of  me  ?  "  she  said.  Her  face 
lighted  up  with  an  expression  of  reckless  beauty.  "  If 
I  could  only  get  started  I'd  go  to  the  devil,  laughing 
and  dancing  —  and  taking  a  train  with  me." 

"  You  are  started,"  said  he,  with  an  amiable  smile. 
"  Keep  on.  But  I  doubt  if  you'll  be  so  well  amused  as 
you  may  imagine.  Going  to  the  devil  isn't  as  it's 
painted  in  novels  by  homely  old  maids  and  by  men  too 
timid  to  go  out  of  nights.  A  few  steps  farther,  and 
your  disillusionment  will  begin.  But  there'll  be  no  turn 
ing  back.  Already,  you  are  almost  too  old  to  make 
a  career." 

"  I'm  only  twenty-four.  I  flattered  myself  I  looked 
still  younger." 

"It's  worse  than  I  thought,"  said  he.  "Most  of 
the  singers,  even  the  second-rate  ones,  began  at  fifteen  — 
began  seriously.  And  you  haven't  begun  yet." 

"  That's  unjust,"  she  protested.  "  I've  done  a  little. 
Many  great  people  would  think  it  a  great  deal." 

"  You  haven't  begun  yet,"  repeated  he  calmly.  "  You 
have  spent  a  lot  of  money,  and  have  done  a  lot  of 
dreaming  and  talking  and  listening  to.  compliments, 
and  have  taken  a  lot  of  lessons  of  an  expensive 
charlatan.  But  what  have  those  things  to  do  with  a 
career?  " 

"  You've  never  heard  me  sing." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  singing." 

"Oh!"  said  she  in  a  tone  of  relief.  "Then  you 
know  nothing  about  all  this." 

227 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  On  the  contrary,  I  know  everything  about  a  career. 
And  we  were  talking  of  careers,  not  of  singing." 

"  You  mean  that  my  voice  is  worthless  because  I 
haven't  the  other  elements  ?  " 

"What  else  could  I  have  meant?"  said  he.  "You 
haven't  the  strength.  You  haven't  the  health." 

She  laughed  as  she  straightened  herself.  "  Do  I 
look  weak  and  sickly  ?  "  cried  she. 

"  For  the  purposes  of  a  career  as  a  female  you  are 
strong  and  well,"  said  he.  "  For  the  purpose  of  a 
career  as  a  singer — "  He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
"  A  singer  must  have  muscles  like  wire  ropes,  like  a 
blacksmith  or  a  washerwoman.  The  other  day  we  were 
climbing  a  hill  —  a  not  very  steep  hill.  You  stopped 
five  times  for  breath,  and  twice  you  sat  down  to  rest." 

She  was  literally  hanging  her  head  with  shame.  "  I 
wasn't  very  well  that  day,"  she  murmured. 

"  Don't  deceive  yourself,"  said  he.  "  Don't  indulge 
in  the  fatal  folly  of  self -excuse." 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  humbly.     "  I  want  to  hear  it  all." 

"  Is  your  throat  sore  to-day  ?  "  pursued  he. 

She  colored.     "  It's  better,"  she  murmured. 

"  A  sing'er  with  sore  throat !  "  mocked  he.  "  You've 
had  a  slight  foggincss  of  the  voice  all  summer." 

"  It's  this  sea  air,"  she  eagerly  protested.  "  It  af 
fects  everyone." 

"  No  self -excuse,  please,"  interrupted  he.  "  Ciga 
rettes,  champagne,  all  kinds  of  foolish  food,  an  impaired 
digestion  —  that's  the  truth,  and  you  know  it." 

"  I've  got  splendid  digestion !  I  can  eat  anything !  " 
she  cried.  "  Oh,  you  don't  know  the  first  thing  about 

228 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


singing.  You  don't  know  about  temperament,  about 
art,  about  all  the  things  that  singing  really  means." 

"  We  were  talking  of  careers,"  said  he.  "  A  career 
means  a  person  who  can  be  relied  upon  to  do  what  is 
demanded  of  him.  A  singer's  career  means  a  powerful 
body,  perfect  health,  a  sound  digestion.  Without  them, 
the  voice  will  not  be  reliable.  What  you  need  is  not 
singing  teachers,  but  teachers  of  athletics  and  of  hygiene. 
To  hear  you  talk  about  a  career  is  like  listening  to  a 
child.  You  think  you  can  become  a  professional  singer 
by  paying  money  to  a  teacher.  There  are  lawyers  and 
doctors  and  business  men  in  all  lines  who  think  that  way 
about  their  professions  —  that  learning  a  little  routine 
of  technical  knowledge  makes  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor  or 
a  merchant  or  a  financier." 

"  Tell  me  —  what  ought  I  to  learn?  " 

"  Learn  to  think  —  and  to  persist.  Learn  to  con 
centrate.  Learn  to  make  sacrifices.  Learn  to  handle 
yourself  as  a  great  painter  handles  his  brush  and  colors. 
Then  perhaps  you'll  make  a  career  as  a  singer.  If  not, 
it'll  be  a  career  as  something  or  other." 

She  was  watching  him  with  a  wistful,  puzzled  expres 
sion.  "  Could  I  ever  do  all  that?  " 

"  Anyone  could,  by  working  away  at  it  every  day. 
If  you  gain  only  one  inch  a  day,  in  a  year  you'll  have 
gained  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  inches.  And  if  you 
gain  an  inch  a  day  for  a  while  and  hold  it,  you  soon 
begin  to  gain  a  foot  a  day.  But  there's  no  need  to 
worry  about  that."  He  was  gazing  at  her  now  with  an 
expression  of  animation  that  showed  how  feverishly  alive 
he  was  behind  that  mask  of  calmness.  "  The  day's 

229 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


work  —  that's  the  story  of  success.  Do  the  day's  work 
persistently,  thoroughly,  intelligently.  Never  mind 
about  to-morrow.  Thinking1  of  it  means  dreaming  or 
despairing  —  both  futilities.  Just  the  day's  work." 

"  I  begin  to  understand,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"  You  are  right.  I've  done  nothing.  Oh,  I've  been  a 
fool  —  more  foolish  even  than  I  thought." 

A  long  silence^  then  she  said,  somewhat  embarrassed 
and  in  a  low  voice,  though  there  was  no  danger  of  those 
in  front  of  them  hearing: 

"  I  want  you  to  know  that  there  has  been  nothing 
wrong  —  between  Stanley  and  me." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  put  that  to  your  credit  or  to 
your  discredit?  "  inquired  he. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  you've  just  told  me  that  you  haven't  given 
Stanley  anything  at  all  for  his  money  —  that  you've 
cheated  him  outright.  The  thing  itself  is  discreditable, 
but  your  tone  suggests  that  you  think  I'll  admire  you 
for  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you'd  think  more  highly 
of  me  if  I  were  —  what  most  women  would  be  in  the 
same  circumstances  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  think  the  whole  business  is 
discreditable  to  both  of  you  —  to  his  intelligence,  to 
your  character." 

"  You  are  frank,"  said  she,  trying  to  hide  her  anger. 

"  I  am  frank,"  replied  he,  undisturbed.  He  looked 
at  her.  "  Why  should  I  not  be?  " 

"  You  know  that  I  need  you,  that  I  don't  dare  re 
sent,"  said  she.  "  So  isn't  it  — a  little  cowardly?  " 

230 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"Why  do  you  need  me?  Not  for  money,  for  you 
know  you'll  not  get  that." 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  cried  she,  agitated.  "  I  never 
thought  of  it." 

"  Yes,  you've  probably  thought  of  it,"  replied  he 
coolly.  "  But  you  will  not  get  it." 

"Well,  that's  settled  — I'll  not  get  it." 

"  Then  why  do  you  need  me  ?  Of  what  use  can  I  be 
to  you?  Only  one  use  in  the  world.  To  tell  you  the 
truth  —  the  exact  truth.  Is  not  that  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  That  is  what  I  want  from  you 
—  what  I  can't  get  from  anyone  else.  No  one  else 
knows  the  truth  —  not  even  Mrs.  Brindley,  though  she's 
intelligent.  I  take  back  what  I  said  about  your  being 
cowardly.  Oh,  you  do  stab  my  vanity  so!  You 
mustn't  mind  my  crying  out.  I  can't  help  it  —  at 
least,  not  till  I  get  used  to  you." 

"  Cry  out,"  said  he.     "  It  does  no  harm." 

"  How  wonderfully  you  understand  me ! "  exclaimed 
she.  "  That's  why  I  let  you  say  to  me  anything  you 
please." 

He  was  smiling  peculiarly  —  a  smile  that  somehow 
made  her  feel  uncomfortable.  She  nerved  herself  for 
some  still  deeper  stab  into  her  vanity.  He  said,  his  gaze 
upon  her  and  ironical: 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  return  the  compliment." 

"  What  compliment?  "  asked  she. 

"  Can't  say  that  you  understand  me.  Why  do  you 
think  I  am  doing  this  ?  " 

She  colored.  "  Oh,  no  indeed,  Mr.  Keith,"  she  pro 
tested,  "  I  don't  think  you  are  in  love  with  me  —  or 

231 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


anything  of  that  sort.  Indeed,  I  do  not.  I  know  you 
better  than  that." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  he,  amused.  "  Then  you  are  not 
human." 

"  How  can  you  think  me  so  vain  ? "  she  pro 
tested. 

"  Because  you  are  so,"  replied  he.  "  You  are  as 
vain  —  no  more  so,  but  just  as  much  so  —  as  the  aver 
age  pretty  and  attractive  woman  brought  up  as  you 
have  been.  You  are  not  obsessed  by  the  notion  that 
your  physical  charms  are  all-powerful,  and  in  that 
fact  there  is  hope  for  you.  But  you  attach  entirely  too 
much  importance  to  them.  You  will  find  them  a  hin 
drance  for  a  long  time  before  they  begin  to  be  a  help 
to  you  in  your  career.  And  they  will  always  be  a 
temptation  to  you  to  take  the  easy,  stupid  way  of  mak 
ing  a  living  —  the  only  way  open  to  most  women  that 
is  not  positively  repulsive." 

"  I  think  it  is  the  most  repulsive,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Don't  cant,"  replied  he,  unimpressed.  "  It's  not 
so  repulsive  to  your  sort  of  woman  as  manual  labor  — 
or  as  any  kind  of  work  that  means  no  leisure,  no  luxury 
and  small  pay.'" 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mildred.  "I  —  I'm  afraid  you're 
right.  But  I  won't  admit  it.  I  don't  dare." 

"  That's  the  finest,  truest  thing  I've  ever  heard  you 
say,"  said  Keith. 

Mildred  was  pleased  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
compliment.  Said  she  with  frank  eagerness,  "  Then 
I'm  not  altogether  hopeless  ?  " 

"  As  a  character,  no  indeed,"  replied  he.  "  But  as  a 
232 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


career —  I  was  about  to  say,  you  may  set  your  mind 
at  rest.  I  shall  never  try  to  collect  for  my  services. 
I  am  doing  all  this  solely  out  of  obstinacy." 

"  Obstinacy?  "  asked  the  puzzled  girl. 

"  The  impossible  attracts  me.  That's  why  I've  never 
been  interested  to  make  a  career  in  law  or  politics  or 
those  things.  I  care  only  for  the  thing  that  can't  be 
done.  When  I  saw  you  and  studied  you,  as  I  study 
every  new  thing,  I  decided  that  you  could  not  possibly 
make  a  career." 

"Why  have  you  changed  your  mind?"  she  inter 
rupted  eagerly. 

"  I  haven't,"  replied  he.  "  If  I  had,  I  should  have 
lost  interest  in  you.  Just  as  soon  as  you  show  signs  of 
making  a  career,  I  shall  lose  interest  in  you.  I  have  a 
friend,  a  doctor,  who  will  take  only  cases  where  cure  is 
impossible.  Looking  at  you,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
here  was  a  chance  to  make  an  experiment  more  inter 
esting  than  any  of  his.  And  as  I  have  no  other  im 
possible  task  inviting  me  at  present,  I  decided  to  under 
take  you  —  if  you  were  willing." 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  this?  "  she  asked.  "  To  dis 
courage  me  ?  " 

"  No.     Your  vanity  will  prevent  that." 

"Then  why?" 

"  To  clear  myself  of  all  responsibility  for  you.  You 
understand  —  I  bind  myself  to  nothing.  I  am  free  to 
stop  or  to  go  on  at  any  time." 

"And  I?"  said  Mildred. 

"  You  must  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you." 

"  But  that  is  not  fair,"  cried  she. 
233 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Why  not  ?  "  inquired  he.  "  Without  me  you  have 
no  hope  —  none  whatever." 

"I  don't  believe  that,"  declared  she.  "It  is  not 
true." 

"  Very  well.  Then  we'll  drop  the  business,"  said  he 
tranquilly.  "  If  the  time  comes  when  you  see  that  I'm 
your  only  hope,  and  if  then  I'm  in  my  present  humor, 
we  will  go  on." 

And  he  lapsed  into  silence  from  which  she  soon  gave 
over  trying  to  rouse  him.  She  thought  of  what  he  had 
said,  studied  him,  but  could  make  nothing  of  it.  She 
let  four  days  go  by,  days  of  increasing  unrest  and  un- 
happiness.  She  could  not  account  for  herself.  Don 
ald  Keith  seemed  to  have  cast  a  spell  over  her  —  an 
evil  spell.  Her  throat  gave  her  more  and  more  trou 
ble.  She  tried  her  voice,  found  that  it  had  vanished. 
She  examined  herself  in  the  glass,  and  saw  or  fancied 
that  her  looks  were  going  —  not  so  that  others  would 
note  it,  but  in  the  subtle  ways  that  give  the  first  alarm 
to  a  woman  who  has  beauty  worth  taking  care  of  and 
thinks  about  it  intelligently.  She  thought  Mrs.  Brind- 
ley  was  beginning  to  doubt  her,  suspected  a  covert 
uneasiness  in  Stanley.  Her  foundations,  such  as  they 
were,  seemed  tottering  and  ready  to  disintegrate.  She 
saw  her  own  past  with  clear  vision  for  the  first  time  — 
saw  how  futile  she  had  been,  and  why  Keith  believed 
there  was  no  hope  for  her.  She  made  desperate  ef 
forts  to  stop  thinking  about  past  and  future,  to  absorb 
herself  in  present  comfort  and  luxury  and  opportunities 
for  enjoyment.  But  Keith  was  always  there  —  and 
to  see  him  was  to  lose  all  capacity  for  enjoyment.  She 

234 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


was  curt,  almost  rude  to  him  —  had  some  vague  idea  of 
forcing  him  to  stay  away.  Yet  every  time  she  lost 
sight  of  him,  she  was  in  terror  until  she  saw  him  again. 

She  was  alone  on  the  small  veranda  facing  the  high 
road.  She  happened  to  glance  toward  the  station;  her 
gaze  became  fixed,  her  body  rigid,  for,  coming  lei 
surely  and  pompously  toward  the  house,  was  General 
Siddall,  in  the  full  panoply  of  his  wonderful  tailoring 
and  haberdashery.  She  thought  of  flight,  but  instantly 
knew  that  flight  was  useless ;  the  little  general  was  not 
there  by  accident.  She  waited,  her  rigidity  giving  her 
a  deceptive  seeming  of  calm  and  even  ease.  He  entered 
the  little  yard,  taking  off  his  glossy  hat  and  exposing 
the  rampant  toupee.  He  smiled  at  her  so  slightly  that 
the  angle  of  the  needle-pointed  mustaches  and  imperial 
was  not  changed.  The  cold,  expressionless,  fishy  eyes 
simply  looked  at  her. 

"  A  delightful  little  house,"  said  he,  with  a  patroniz 
ing  glance  around.  "  May  I  sit  down  ?  " 

She  inclined  her  head. 

"  And  you  are  looking  well,  charming,"  he  went  on, 
and  he  seated  himself  and  carefully  planted  his  neat 
boots  side  by  side.  "  For  the  summer  there's  nothing 
equal  to  the  seashore.  You  are  surprised  to  see  me?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  abroad,"  said  Mildred. 

"  So  I  was  —  until  yesterday.  I  came  back  because 
my  men  had  found  you.  And  I'm  here  because  I  ven 
ture  to  hope  that  you  have  had  enough  of  this  foolish 
escapade.  I  hope  we  can  come  to  an  understanding. 
I've  lost  my  taste  for  wandering  about.  I  wish  to  settle 
down  —  to  have  a  home  and  to  stay  in  it.  By  that 

235 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


I  mean,  of  course,  two  or  three  —  or  possibly  four  — 
houses,  according  to  the  season."  Mildred  sent  her 
glance  darting  about.  The  little  general  saw  and  be 
gan  to  talk  more  rapidly.  "  I've  given  considerable 
thought  to  our  —  our  misunderstanding.  I  feel  that  I 
gave  too  much  importance  to  your  —  your —  I  did 
not  take  your  youth  and  inexperience  of  the  world  and 
of  married  life  sufficiently  into  account.  Also  the  first 
Mrs.  Siddall  was  not  a  lady  —  nor  the  second.  A  lady, 
a  young  lady,  was  a  new  experience  to  me.  I  am  a 
generous  man.  So  I  say  frankly  that  I  ought  to  have 
been  more  patient." 

"  You  said  you  would  never  see  me  again  until  I  came 
to  you,"  said  Mildred.  As  he  was  not  looking  at  her, 
she  watched  his  face.  She  now  saw  a  change  —  behind 
the  mask.  But  he  went  on  in  an  unchanged  voice: 

"  Were  you  aware  that  Mrs.  Baird  is  about  to  sue 
her  husband  for  a  separation  —  not  for  a  divorce  but 
for  a  separation  —  and  name  you  ?  " 

Mildred  dropped  limply  back  in  her  chair. 

"  That  means  scandal,"  continued  Siddall,  "  scandal 
touching  my  name  —  my  honor.  I  may  say,  I  do  not 
believe  what  Mrs.  Baird  charges.  My  men  have  had 
you  under  observation  for  several  weeks.  Also,  Mrs. 
Brindley  is,  I  learn,  a  woman  of  the  highest  character. 
But  the  thing  looks  bad  —  you  hiding  from  your  hus 
band,  living  under  an  assumed  name,  receiving  the  visits 
of  a  former  admirer." 

"  You  are  mistaken/'  said  Mildred.  "  Mrs.  Baird 
would  not  bring  such  a  false,  wicked  charge." 

"  You    are    innocent,    my    dear,"    said    the    general. 
236 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  don't  realize  how  your  conduct  looks.  She  in 
tends  to  charge  that  her  husband  has  been  supporting 
you." 

Mildred,  quivering,  started  up,  sank  weakly  back 
again. 

"  But,"  he  went  on,  "  you  will  easily  prove  that  your 
money  is  your  inheritance  from  your  father.  I  assured 
myself  of  that  before  I  consented  to  come  here." 

"  Consented?  "  said  Mildred.     "  At  whose  request?  " 

"  That  of  my  own  generosity,"  replied  he.  "  But 
my  honor  had  to  be  reassured.  When  I  was  satisfied 
that  you  were  innocent,  and  simply  flighty  and  foolish, 
I  came.  If  there  had  been  any  taint  upon  you,  of 
course  I  could  not  have  taken  you  back.  As  it  is,  I  am 
willing  —  I  may  say,  more  than  willing.  Mrs.  Baird 
can  be  bought  off  and  frightened  off.  When  she  finds 
you  have  me  to  protect  you,  she  will  move  very  cau 
tiously,  you  may  be  sure." 

As  the  little  man  talked,  Mildred  saw  and  felt  behind 
the  mask  the  thoughts,  the  longings  of  his  physical 
infatuation  for  her  coiling  and  uncoiling  and  reach 
ing  tremulously  out  toward  her  like  unclean,  horrible 
tentacles.  She  was  drawn  as  far  as  could  be  back 
into  her  chair,  and  her  soul  was  shrinking  within  her 
body. 

"  I  am  willing  to  make  you  a  proper  allowance,  and 
to  give  you  all  proper  freedom,"  he  went  on.  He 
showed  his  sharp  white  teeth  in  a  gracious  smile.  "  I 
realize  I  must  concede  something  of  my  old-fashioned 
ideas  to  the  modern  spirit.  I  never  thought  I  would, 
but  I  didn't  appreciate  how  fond  I  was  of  you,  my 

237 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


dear."  He  mumbled  his  tongue  and  noiselessly  smacked 
his  thin  lips.  "  Yes,  you  are  worth  concessions  and 
sacrifices." 

"  I  am  not  going  back,"  said  Mildred.  "  Nothing 
you  could  offer  me  would  make  any  difference."  She 
felt  suddenly  calm  and  strong.  She  stood.  "  Please 
consider  this  final." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  said  the  general  softly,  though 
there  was  a  wicked  gleam  behind  the  mask,  "  you  forget 
the  scandal — " 

"  I  forget  nothing,"  interrupted  she.  "  I  shall  not 
go  back." 

Before  he  could  attempt  further  to  detain  her  she 
opened  the  screen  door  and  entered.  It  closed  on  the 
spring  and  on  the  spring  lock. 

Donald  Keith,  coming  in  from  the  sea-front  veranda, 
was  just  in  time  to  save  her  from  falling.  She  pushed 
him  fiercely  away  and  sank  down  on  the  sofa  just  within 
the  pretty  little  drawing-room.  She  said: 

"  Thank  you.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude.  I  was  only 
angry  with  myself.  I'm  getting  to  be  one  of  those 
absurd  females  who  blubber  and  keel  over." 

"You're  white  and  limp,"  said  he.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"  General  Siddall  is  out  there." 

"  Um  —  he's  come  back,  has  he  ?  "  said  Keith. 

"  And  I  am  afraid  of  him  —  horribly  afraid  of  him." 

"  In  some  places  and  circumstances  he  would  be  a 
dangerous  proposition,"  said  Keith.  "  But  not  here  in 
the  East  —  and  not  to  you." 

"He  would  do  anything.  I  don't  know  what  he  can 
238 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


do,  but  I  am  sure  it  will  be  frightful  —  will  destroy 
me." 

"  You  are  going  with  him  ?  " 

She  laughed.  "  I  loathe  him.  I  thought  I  left  him 
through  fear  and  anger.  I  was  mistaken.  It  was 
loathing.  And  my  fear  of  him  : —  it's  loathing,  too." 

"You  mean  that?"  said  Keith,  observing  her  in 
tently.  "  You  wish  to  be  rid  of  him?  " 

"  What  a  poor  opinion  you  have  of  me,"  said  she. 
"  Really,  I  don't  deserve  quite  that." 

"  Then  come  with  me." 

The  look  of  terror  and  shrinking  returned. 
"Where?  To  see  him?" 

"For  the  last  time,"  said  Keith.  "There'll  be  no 
scene." 

It  was  the  supreme  test  of  her  confidence  in  him. 
Without  hesitation,  she  rose,  preceded  him  into  the  hall, 
and  advanced  firmly  toward  the  screen  door  through 
which  the  little  general  could  be  seen.  He  was  stand 
ing  at  the  top  step,  his  back  to  them.  At  the  sound 
of  the  opening  door  he  turned. 

"This  is  Mr.  Donald  Keith,"  said  Mildred.  "He 
wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

The  general  bowed ;  Keith  bent  his  head.  They  eyed 
each  other  with  the  measuring  glance.  Keith  said  in  his 
dry,  terse  way :  "  I  asked  Miss  Gower  to  come  with  me 
because  I  wish  her  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

"  You  mean  my  wife,"  said  the  general  with  a  gra 
cious  smile. 

"  I  mean  Miss  Gower,"  returned  Keith.  "  As  you 
know,  she  is  not  your  wife." 

239 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mildred  uttered  a  cry;  but  the  two  men  continued 
to  look  each  at  the  other,  with  impassive  countenances. 

"  Your  only  wife  is  the  woman  who  has  been  in  the 
private  insane  asylum  of  Doctor  Rivers  at  Pueblo,  Col 
orado,  for  the  past  eleven  years.  For  about  twenty 
years  before  that  she  was  in  the  Delavan  private  asylum 
near  Denver.  You  could  not  divorce  her  under  the  laws 
of  Colorado.  The  divorce  you  got  in  Nevada  was 
fraudulent." 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  the  general  coldly. 

Keith  went  on,  as  if  he  had  not  heard :  "  You  will 
not  annoy  this  lady  again.  And  you  will  stop  bribing 
Stanley  Baird's  wife  to  make  a  fool  of  herself.  And 
you  will  stop  buying  houses  in  the  blocks  where  Baird 
owns  real  estate,  and  moving  colored  families  into 
them." 

"  I  tell  you  that  about  my  divorce  is  a  lie/'  replied 
Siddall. 

"  I  can  prove  it,"  said  Keith.  "  And  I  can  prove 
that  you  knew  it  before  you  married  your  second  wife." 

For  the  first  time  Siddall  betrayed  at  the  surface  a 
hint  of  how  hard  he  was  hit.  His  skin  grew  bright  yel 
low;  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  and  round  the  base  of  his 
nose  sprang  into  sudden  prominence. 

"  I  see  you  know  what  I  mean  —  that  attempt  to 
falsify  the  record  at  Carson  City,"  said  Keith.  He 
opened  the  screen  dpor  for  Mildred  to  pass  in.  He  fol 
lowed  her,  and  the  door  closed  behind  them.  They  went 
into  the  drawing-room.  He  dropped  into  an  easy  chair, 
crossed  his  legs,  leaned  his  head  back  indolently  —  a 
favorite  attitude  of  his. 

240 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  How  long  have  you  known?  "  said  she.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  excitement. 

"  Oh,  a  good  many  years,"  replied  he.  "  It  was  one 
of  those  accidental  bits  of  information  a  man  runs  across 
in  knocking  about.  As  soon  as  Baird  told  me  about 
you,  I  had  the  thing  looked  up,  quietly.  I  was  going 
up  to  see  him  to-morrow  —  about  the  negroes  and  Mrs. 
Baird's  suit." 

"Does  Stanley  know?"  inquired  she. 

"  No,"  said  Keith.  "  Not  necessary.  Never  will 
be.  If  you  like,  you  can  have  the  marriage  an 
nulled  without  notoriety.  But  that's  not  necessary, 
either." 

After  a  long  silence,  she  said :  "  What  does  this 
make  out  of  me?  " 

"  You  mean,  what  would  be  thought  of  you,  if  it  were 
known?"  inquired  he.  "Well,  it  probably  wouldn't 
improve  your  social  position." 

"  I  am  disgraced,"  said  she,  curiously  rather  than 
emotionally. 

"  Would  be,  if  it  were  known,"  corrected  he,  "  and 
if  you  are  nothing  but  a  woman  without  money  look 
ing  for  a  husband.  If  you  happened  to  be  a  singer 
or  an  actress,  it  would  add  to  your  reputation  —  make 
you  more  talked  about." 

"  But  I  am  not'  an  actress  or  a  singer." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  I  should  say  you  didn't  amount 

to  much  socially.     Except  in  Hanging  Rock,  of  course 

—  if  there  is  still  a  Hanging  Rock.     Don't  worry  about 

your    reputation.     Fussing    and    fretting    about    your 

social  position  doesn't  help  toward  a  career." 

241 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Naturally,  you  take  it  coolly.  But  you  can  hardly 
expect  me  to,"  cried  she. 

"  You  are  taking  it  coolly,"  said  he.  "  Then  why 
try  to  work  yourself  up  into  a  fit  of  hysterics?  The 
thing  is  of  no  importance  —  except  that  you're  free 
now  —  will  never  be  bothered  by  Siddall  again.  You 
ought  to  thank  me,  and  forget  it.  Don't  be  one  of  the 
little  people  who  are  forever  agitating  about  trifles." 

Trifles !  To  speak  of  such  things  as  trifles !  And 
yet  —  Well,  what  did  they  actually  amount  to  in  her 
life?  "  Yes,  I  am  free,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "  I've 
got  what  I  wanted  —  got  it  in  the  easiest  way  possible." 

"  That's  better,"  said  he  approvingly. 

"  And  I've  burnt  my  bridges  behind  me,"  pursued 
she.  "  There's  nothing  for  me  now  but  to  go  ahead." 

"  Which  road?  "  inquired  he  carelessly. 

"  The  career,"  cried  she.  "  There's  no  other  for  me. 
Of,  course  I  could  marry  Stanley,  when  he's  free,  as  he 
would  be  before  very  long,  if  I  suggested  it.  Yes,  I 
could  marry  him." 

"  Could  you?  "  observed  he. 

"  Doesn't  he  love  me?  " 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"Then  why  do  you  say  he  would  not  marry  me?" 
demanded  she. 

"Did  I  say  that?" 

"  You  insinuated  it.  You  suggested  that  there  was 
a  doubt." 

"Then,  there  is  no  doubt?" 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  she  cried  angrily.  "  You  won't  let 
me  enjoy  the  least  bit  of  a  delusion.  He  might  marry 

242 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


me  if  I  were  famous.  But  as  I  am  now  —  He's  an 
inbred  snob.  He  can't  help  it.  He  simply  couldn't 
marry  a  woman  in  my  position.  But  you're  overlook 
ing  one  thing  —  that  /  would  not  marry  him." 

"That's  unimportant,  if  true,"  said  Keith. 

"You  don't  believe  it?" 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  it,  my  dear  lady,"  said 
Keith.  "  Have  you  got  time  to  waste  in  thinking  about 
how  much  I  am  in  love  with  you?  What  a  womanly 
woman  you  are,  to  be  sure.  Your  true  woman,  you 
know,  never  thinks  of  anything  but  love  —  not  how 
much  she  loves,  but  how  much  she  is  loved." 

"  Be  careful !  "  she  warned.  "  Some  day  you'll  go 
too  far  in  saying  outrageous  things  'to  me." 

"  And  then?  "  said  he  smilingly. 

"You  care  nothing  for  our  friendship?" 

"  The  experiment  is  the  only  interest  I  have  in  you," 
replied  he. 

"  That  is  not  true,"  said  she.  "  You  have  always 
liked  me.  That's  why  you  looked  up  my  hus  — 
General  Siddal  and  got  ready  for  him.  That's  why  you 
saved  me  to-day.  You  are  a  very  tender-hearted  and 
generous  man  —  and  you  hide  it  as  you  do  everything 
else  about  yourself." 

He  was  looking  off  into  space  from  the  depths  of 
the  easy  chair,  a  mocking  smile  on  his  classical,  impas 
sive  face. 

"  What  puzzles  me,"  she  went  on,  "  is  why  you  inter 
est  yourself  in  as  vain  and  shallow  and  vacillating  a 
woman  as  I  am.  You  don't  care  for  my  looks  —  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  me." 

243 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Don't  pause  to  be  contradicted,"  said  he. 

She  was  in  a  fine  humor  now.  "  You  might  at  least 
have  said  I  was  up  to  the  female  average,  for  I  am. 
What  have  they  got  to  offer  a  man  but  their  looks? 
Do  you  know  why  I  despise  men  ?  " 

"Do  you?" 

"  I  do.  And  it's  because  they  put  up  with  women 
as  much  as  they  do  —  spend  so  much  money  on  them, 
listen  to  their  chatter,  admire  their  ridiculous  clothes. 
Oh,  I  understand  why.  I've  learned  that.  And  I  can 
imagine  myself  putting  up  with  anything  in  some  one 
man  I  happened  to  fancy  strongly.  But  men  are  fool 
ish  about  the  whole  sex  —  or  all  of  them  that  have  a 
shadow  of  a  claim  to  good  looks." 

66  Yes,  the  men  make  fools  of  themselves,"  admitted 
he.  "  But  I  notice  that  the  men  manage  somehow  to 
make  the  careers,  and  hold  on  to  the  money  and  the 
power,  while  the  women  have  to  wheedle  and  fawn  and 
submit  in  order  to  get  what  they  want  from  the  men. 
There's  nothing  to  be  said  for  your  sex.  It's  been 
hopelessly  corrupted  by  mine.  For  all  the  talk  about 
the  influence  of  woman,  what  impression  has  your  sex 
made  upon  mine  ?  And  your  sex  —  it  has  been  made 
by  mine  into  exactly  what  we  wished  it  to  be.  Take 
my  advice,  get  out  of  your  sex.  Abandon  it,  and  make 


After  a  while  she  recalled  with  a  start  the  events  of 
less  than  an  hour  ago  —  events  that  ought  to  have 
seemed  wildly  exciting,  arousing  the  deepest  and  strong 
est  emotions.  Yet  they  had  made  no  impression  upon 
her.  Absolutely  none.  She  had  no  horror  in  the 

244 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


thought  that  she  had  been  the  victim  of  a  bigamist; 
she  had  no  elation  over  her  release  into  freedom  and 
safety.  She  wondered  whether  this  arose  from  utter 
f rivolousness  or  from  indifference  to  the  trifles  of  con 
ventional  joys,  sorrows,  agitations,  excitements  which 
are  the  whole  life  of  most  people  —  that  indifference 
which  is  the  cause  of  the  general  opinion  that  men  and 
women  who  make  careers  are  usually  hardened  in  the 
process. 

As  she  lay  awake  that  night  —  she  had  got  a  very 
bad  habit  of  lying  awake  hour  after  hour  —  she  sud 
denly  came  to  a  decision.  But  she  did  not  tell  Keith 
for  several  days.  She  did  it  in  this  way: 

"  Don't  you  think  I'm  looking  better?  "  she  asked. 

"  You're  sleeping  again,"  said  he. 

"  Do  you  know  why  ?  Because  my  mind's  at  rest. 
I've  decided  to  accept  your  offer." 

"  And  my  terms  ?  "  said  he,  apparently  not  interested 
by  her  announcement. 

"  And  your  terms,"  assented  she.  "  You  are  free  to 
stop  whenever  the  whim  strikes  you;  I  must  do  ex 
actly  as  you  bid.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  present,"  replied  he.  "  I  will  let  you 
know." 

She  was  disappointed.  She  had  assumed  that  some 
thing  —  something  new  and  interesting,  probably  irri 
tating,  perhaps  enraging,  would  occur  at  once.  His 
indifference,  his  putting  off  to  a  future  time,  which  his 
manner  made  seem  most  hazily  indefinite,  gave  her  the 
foolish  and  collapsing  sense  of  having  broken  through 
an  open  door. 

245 


VII 

THE  first  of  September  they  went  up  to  town. 
Stanley  left  at  once  for  his  annual  shooting  trip ;  Don 
ald  Keith  disappeared,  saying  —  as  was  his  habit  — 
neither  what  he  was  about  nor  when  he  would  be  seen 
again.  Mrs.  Brindley  summoned  her  pupils  and  her 
musical  friends.  Mildred  resumed  the  lessons  with 
Jennings.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  she  had  aston 
ishingly  improved  during  the  summer.  There  had 
come  —  or,  rather,  had  come  back  —  into  her  voice  the 
birdlike  quality,  free,  joyous,  spontaneous,  that  had  not 
been  there  since  her  father's  death  and  the  family's 
downfall.  She  was  glad  that  her  arrangement  with 
Donald  Keith  was  of  such  a  nature  that  she  was  really 
not  bound  to  go  on  with  it  —  if  he  should  ever  come 
back  and  remind  her  of  what  she  had  said.  Now  that 
Jennings  was  enthusiastic  —  giving  just  and  deserved 
praise,  as  her  own  ear  and  Mrs.  Brindley  assured  her, 
she  was  angry  at  herself  for  having  tolerated  Keith's 
frankness,  his  insolence,  his  insulting  and  contemptuous 
denials  of  her  ability.  She  was  impatient  to  see  him, 
that  she  might  put  him  down.  She  said  to  Jennings: 

"  You  think  I  can  make  a  career  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  a  doubt  in  my  mind  now,"  replied  he. 
"  You  ought  to  be  one  of  the  few  great  lyric  sopranos 
within  five  years." 

246 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  A  man,  this  summer  —  a  really  unusual  man  in 
some  ways  —  told  me  there  was  no  hope  for  me." 

"  A  singing  teacher?  " 

"  No,  a  lawyer.     A  Mr.  Keith  —  Donald  Keith." 

"  I've  heard  of  him,"  said  Jennings.  "  His  mother 
was  Rivi,  the  famous  coloratura  of  twenty  years  ago." 

Mildred  was  astounded.  "  He  must  know  something 
about  music." 

"  Probably,"  replied  Jennings.  "  He  lived  with  her 
in  Italy,  I  believe,  until  he  was  almost  grown.  Then 
she  died.  You  sang  for  him?  " 

"  No,"  Mildred  said  it  hesitatingly. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Jennings,  and  his  expression- j —  inter 
ested,  disturbed,  puzzled  —  made  Mildred  understand 
why  she  had  been  so  reluctant  to  confess.  Jennings 
did  not  pursue  the  subject,  but  abruptly  began  the  les 
son.  That  day  and  several  days  thereafter  he  put  her 
to  tests  he  had  never  used  before.  She  saw  that  he 
was  searching  for  something  —  for  the  flaw  implied  in 
the  adverse  verdict  of  the  son  of  Lucia  Rivi.  She  was 
enormously  relieved  when  he  gave  over  the  search  with 
out  having  found  the  flaw.  She  felt  that  Donald 
Keith's  verdict  had  been  proved  false  or  at  least  faulty. 
Yet  she  was  not  wholly  reassured,  and  from  time  to  time 
she  suspected  that  Jennings  had  not  been,  either. 

Soon  the  gayety  of  the  preceding  winter  and  spring 
was  in  full  swing  again.  Keith  did  not  return,  did  not 
write,  and  Cyrilla  Brindley  inquired  and  telephoned  in 
vain.  Mildred  worked  with  enthusiasm,  with  hope,  pres 
ently  with  confidence.  She  hoped  every  day  that  Keith 
would  come ;  she  would  make  him  listen  to  her,  force  him 

247 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


to  admit.  She  caught  a  slight  cold,  neglected  it,  tried 
to  sing  it  away.  Her  voice  left  her  abruptly.  She 
went  to  Jennings  as  usual  the  day  she  found  herself 
able  to  do  nothing  more  musical  than  squeak.  She  told 
him  her  plight.  Said  he : 

"  Begin !     Let's  hear." 

She  made  a  few  dismal  attempts,  stopped  short,  and, 
half  laughing,  half  ashamed,  faced  him  for  the  lecture 
she  knew  would  be  forthcoming.  Now,  it  so  happened 
that  Jennings  was  in  a  frightful  humor  that  day  —  one 
of  those  humors  in  which  the  most  prudent  lose  their 
self-control.  He  had  been  listening  to  a  succession  of 
new  pupils  —  women  with  money  and  no  voice,  women 
who  screeched  and  screamed  and  thoroughly  enjoyed 
themselves  and  angled  confidently  for  compliments.  As 
Jennings  had  an  acute  musical  ear,  his  sufferings  had 
been  frightful.  He  was  used  to  these  torments,  had  the 
habit  of  turning  the  fury  into  which  they  put  him  into 
excellent  financial  or  disciplinary  account.  But  on  this 
particular  day  his  nerves  went  to  pieces,  and  it  was  with 
Mildred  that  the  explosion  came.  When  she  looked  at 
him,  she  was  horrified  to  see  a  face  distorted  and  dis 
colored  by  sheer  rage. 

"  You  fool ! "  he  shouted,  storming  up  and  down. 
"  You  fool !  You  can't  sing !  Keith  was  right.  You 
wouldn't  do  even  for  a  church  choir.  You  can't  be 
relied  on.  There's  nothing  behind  your  voice  —  no 
strength,  no  endurance,  no  brains.  No  brains !  Do 
you  hear  ?  —  no  brains,  I  say !  " 

Mildred  was  terrified.  She  had  seen  him  in  tantrums 
before,  but  always  there  had  been  a  judicious  reserving 

248 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


of  part  of  the  truth.  Instead  of  resenting,  instead  of 
flashing  eye  or  quivering1  lips,  Mildred  sat  down  and  with 
white  face  and  dazed  eyes  stared  straight  before  her. 
Jennings  raved  and  roared  himself  out.  As  he  came 
to  his  senses  from  this  debauch  of  truth-telling  his  first 
thought  was  how  expensive  it  might  be.  Thus?  long 
before  there  was  any  outward  sign  that  the  storm  had 
passed,  the  ravings,  the  insults  were  shrewdly  tempered 
with  qualifyings.  If  she  kept  on  catching  these  colds, 
if  she  did  not  obey  his  instructions,  she  might  put  off 
her  debut  for  years  —  for  three  years,  for  two  years  at 
least.  And  she  would  always  be  rowing  with  managers 
and  irritating  the  public  —  and  so  on  and  on.  But 
the  mischief  had  been  done.  The  girl  did  not  rouse. 

"  No  use  to  go  on  to-day,"  he  said  gruffly  —  the 
pretense  at  last  rumblings  of  an  expiring  storm. 

"  Nor  any  other  day,"  said  Mildred. 

She  stood  and  straightened  herself.  Her  face  was 
beautiful  rather  than  lovely.  Its  pallor,  its  strong 
lines,  the  melancholy  intensity  of  the  eyes,  made  her 
seem  more  the  woman  fully  developed,  less,  far  less,  the 
maturing  girl. 

"  Nonsense ! "  scolded  Jennings.  "  But  no  more 
colds  like  that.  They  impair  the  quality  of  the  voice." 

"  I  have  no  voice,"  said  the  girl.     "  I  see  the  truth." 

Jennings  was  inwardly  cursing  his  insane  temper. 
In  about  the  kindliest  tone  he  had  ever  used  with  her, 
he  said:  "My  dear  Miss  Stevens,  you  are  in  no  con 
dition  to  judge  to-day.  Come  back  to-morrow.  Do 
something  for  that  cold  to-night.  Clear  out  the  throat 
—  and  come  back  to-morrow.  You  will  see." 

249 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Yes,  I  know  those  tricks,"  said  she,  with  a  sad  little 
smile.  "  You  can  make  a  crow  seem  to  sing.  But  you 
told  me  the  truth." 

"  To-morrow,"  he  cried  pleasantly,  giving  her  an  en 
couraging  pat  on  the  shoulder.  He  knew  the  folly  of 
talking  too  much,  the  danger  of  confirming  her  fears  by 
pretending  to  make  light  of  them.  "  A  good  sleep,  and 
to-morrow  things  will  look  brighter." 

He  did  not  like  her  expression.  It  was  not  the  one 
he  was  used  to  seeing  in  those  vain,  "  temperamental  " 
pupils  of  his  —  the  downcast  vanity  that  will  be  up 
again  in  a  few  hours.  It  was  rather  the  expression  of 
one  who  has  been  finally  and  forever  disillusioned. 

On  her  way  home  she  stopped  to  send  Keith  a  tele 
gram  :  "  I  must  see  you  at  once." 

There  were  several  at  the  apartment  for  tea,  among 
them  Cullan,  an  amateur  violinist  and  critic  on  music 
whom  she  especially  liked.  For,  instead  of  the  dreamy, 
romantic  character  his  large  brown  eyes  and  sensitive 
features  suggested,  he  revealed  in  talk  and  actions  a 
boyish  gayety  —  free,  be  it  said,  from  boyish  silliness  — 
that  was  most  infectious.  His  was  one  of  those  souls 
that  put  us  in  the  mood  to  laugh  at  all  seriousness,  to 
forget  all  else  in  the  supreme  fact  of  the  reality  of  ex 
istence.  He  made  her  forget  that  day  —  forget  until 
Keith's  answering  telegram  interrupted :  "  Next  Mon 
day  afternoon." 

A  week  less  a  day  away!  She  shrank  and  trembled 
at  the  prospect  of  relying  upon  herself  alone  for  six 
long  days.  Every  prop  had  been  taken  away  from  her. 
Even  the  dubious  prop  of  the  strange,  unsatisfactory 

250 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Keith.  For  had  he  not  failed  her?  She  had  said, 
"  must "  and  "  at  once  " ;  and  he  had  responded  with 
three  words  of  curt  refusal. 

After  dinner  Stanley  unexpectedly  appeared.  He 
hardly  waited  for  the  necessary  formalities  of  the  greet 
ing  before  he  said  to  Mrs.  Brindley :  "  I  want  to  see 
Mildred  alone.  I  know  you  won't  mind,  Mrs.  Brindley. 
It's  very  important."  He  laughed  nervously  but  cheer 
fully.  "  And  in  a  few  minutes  I'll  call  you  in.  I  think 
I'll  have  something  interesting  to  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Brindley  laughed.  With  her  cigarette  in  one 
hand  and  her  cup  of  after-dinner  coffee  in  the  other, 
she  moved  toward  the  door,  saying  gayly  to  Mildred: 

"  I'll  be  in  the  next  room.  If  you  scream  I  shall 
hear.  So  don't  be  alarmed." 

Stanley  closed  the  door,  turned  beaming  upon  Mil 
dred.  Said  he :  "  Here's  my  news.  My  missus  has 
got  her  divorce." 

Mildred  started  up. 

"  Yes,  the  real  thing,"  he  assured  her.  "  Of  course 
I  knew  what  was  doing.  But  I  kept  mum  —  didn't 
want  to  say  anything  to  you  till  I  could  say  everything. 
Mildred,  I'm  free.  We  can  be  married  to-morrow,  if 
you  will." 

"  Then  you  know  about  me  ?  "  said  she,  confused. 

"  On  the  way  I  stopped  in  to  see  Keith.  He  told  me 
about  that  skunk  —  told  me  you  were  free,  too." 

Mildred  slowly  sat  down.  Her  elbows  rested  upon 
the  table.  There  was  her  bare  forearm,  slender  and 
round,  and  her  long,  graceful  fingers  lay  against  her 
cheek.  The  light  from  above  reflected  charmingly 

251 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


from  the  soft  waves  and  curves  of  her  hair.  "  You're 
lovely  —  simply  lovely  !  "  cried  Stanley.  "  Mildred  — 
darling  —  you  will  marry  me,  won't  you?  You  can 
go  right  on  with  the  career,  if  you  like.  In  fact,  I'd 
rather  you  would,  for  I'm  frightfully  proud  of  your 
voice.  And  I've  changed  a  lot  since  I  became  sincerely 
interested  in  you.  The  other  sort  of  life  and  people 
don't  amuse  me  any  more.  Mildred,  say  you'll 
marry  me.  I'll  make  you  as  happy  as  the  days  are 
long." 

She  moved  slightly.     Her  hand  dropped  to  the  table. 

"  I  guess  I  came  down  on  you  too  suddenly,"  said 
he.  "  You  look  a  bit  dazed." 

"  No,  I'm  not  dazed,"  replied  she. 

"  I'll  call  Mrs.  Brindley  in,  and  we'll  all  three  talk 
it  over." 

"  Please  don't,"  said  she.  "  I've  got  to  think  it  out 
for  myself." 

"  I  know  there  isn't  anyone  else,"  he  went  on.  "  So, 
I'm  sure  —  dead  sure,  Mildred,  that  I  can  teach  you 
to  love  me." 

She  looked  at  him  pleadingly.  "  I  don't  have  to  an 
swer  right  away?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  laughed  he.  "  But  why  shouldn't 
you?  What  is  there  against  our  getting  married? 
Nothing.  And  everything  for  it.  Our  marriage  will 
straighten  out  all  the  —  the  little  difficulties,  and  you 
can  go  ahead  with  the  singing  and  not  bother  about 
money,  or  what  people  might  say,  or  any  of  those 
things." 

"I  —  I've  got  to  think  about  it,  Stanley,"  she  said 
252 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


gently.  "  I  want  to  do  the  decent  thing  by  you  and 
by  myself." 

"  You're  afraid  I'll  interfere  in  the  career  —  won't 
want  you  to  go  on  ?  Mildred,  I  swear  I'm  — " 

"  It  isn't  that,"  she  interrupted,  her  color  high. 
"  The  truth  is  — "  she  faltered,  came  to  a  full  stop  — 
cried,  "  Oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it  to-night." 

"To-morrow?"  he  suggested. 

"I  —  don't  know,"  she  stammered.  "  Perhaps  to 
morrow.  But  it  may  be  two  or  three  days." 

Stanley  looked  crestfallen.  "  That  hurts,  Mildred," 
he  said.  "  I  was  so  full  of  it,  so  anxious  to  be  entirely 
happy,  and  I  thought  you'd  fall  right  in  with  it. 
Something  to  do  with  money?  You're  horribly  sensi 
tive  about  money,  dear.  I  like  that  in  you,  of  course. 
Not  many  women  would  have  been  as  square,  would 
have  taken  as  little  —  and  worked  hard  —  and  thought 
and  cared  about  nothing  but  making  good  —  By  Jove, 
it's  no  wonder  I'm  stark  crazy  about  you!  " 

She  was  flushed  and  trembling.  "  Don't,"  she 
pleaded.  "  You're  beating  me  down  into  the  dust.  I 
—  I'm—"  She  started  up.  "I  can't  talk  to-night. 
I  might  say  things  I'd  be  —  I  can't  talk  about  it.  I 
must  — " 

She  pressed  her  lips  together  and  fled  through  the 
hall  to  her  own  room,  to  shut  and  lock  herself  in.  He 
stared  in  amazement.  When  he  heard  the  distant  sound 
of  the  turning  key  he  dropped  to  a  chair  again  and 
laughed.  Certainly  women  were  queer  creatures  —  al 
ways  doing  what  one  didn't  expect.  Still,  in  the  end  — 
well,  a  sensible  woman  knew  a  good  chance  to  marry 

253 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  took  it.  There  was  no  doubt  a  good  deal  of  pre 
tense  in  Mildred's  delicacy  as  to  money  matters  —  but 
a  devilish  creditable  sort  of  pretense.  He  liked  the 
ladylike,  "  nice  "  pretenses,  of  women  of  the  right  sort 
—  liked  them  when  they  fooled  him,  liked  them  when 
they  only  half  fooled  him. 

Presently  he  knocked  on  the  door  of  the  little  library, 
opened  it  when  permission  came  in  Cyrilla's  voice.  She 
was  reading  the  evening  paper  —  he  did  not  see  the 
glasses  she  hastily  thrust  into  a  drawer.  In  that  soft 
light  she  looked  a  scant  thirty,  handsome,  but  for  his 
taste  too  intellectual  of  type  to  be  attractive  —  except 
as  a  friend. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  as  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  dropped  the 
match  into  the  big  copper  ash-bowl,  "  I'll  bet  you  can't 
guess  what  I've  been  up  to." 

"  Making  love  to  Miss  Stevens,"  replied  she.  "  And 
very  foolish  it  is  of  you.  She's  got  a  steady  head  — 
in  that  way." 

"  You're  mighty  right,"  said  he  heartily.  "  And  I 
admire  her  for  that  more  than  for  anything  else.  I'd 
trust  her  anywhere." 

"  You're  paying  yourself  a  high  compliment," 
laughed  Cyrilla. 

"How's  that?"  inquired  he.  "You're  too  subtle 
for  me.  I'm  a  bit  slow." 

Mrs.  Brindley  decided  against  explaining.  It  was 
not  wise  to  risk  raising  an  unjust  doubt  in  the  mind 
of  a  man  who  fancied  that  a  woman  who  resisted  him 
would  be  adamant  to  every  other  man.  "  Then  I've  got 
to  guess  again?  "  said  she. 

254 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I've  been  asking1  her  to  marry  me,"  said  Stanley, 
who  could  contain  it  no  longer.  "  Mrs.  B.  was  released 
from  me  to-day  by  the  court  in  Providence." 

"  But  she's  not  free,"  said  Cyrilla,  a  little  severely. 

Stanley  looked  confused,  finally  said :  "  Yes,  she  is. 
It's  a  queer  story.  Don't  say  anything1.  I  can't  ex 
plain.  I  know  I  can  trust  you  to  keep  a  close  mouth." 

"  Minding  my  own  business  is  my  one  supreme  tal 
ent,"  said  Cyrilla. 

"  She  hasn't  accepted  me  —  in  so  many  words,"  pur 
sued  Baird,  "  but  I've  hopes  that  it'll  come  out  all 
right." 

"  Naturally,"  commented  Cyrilla  dryly. 

"I  know  I'm  not  —  not  objectionable  to  her.  And 
how  I  do  love  her ! "  He  settled  himself  at  his  ease. 
"  I  can't  believe  it's  really  me.  I  never  thought  I'd 
marry  —  just  for  love.  Did  you?" 

"  You're  very  self-indulgent,"  said  Cyrilla. 

"  You  mean  I'm  marrying  her  because  I  can't  get 
her  any  other  way.  There's  where  you're  wrong,  Mrs. 
Brindley.  I'm  marrying  her  because  I  don't  want  her 
any  other  way.  That's  why  I  know  it's  love.  I  didn't 
think  I  was  capable  of  it.  Of  course,  I've  been  rather 
strong  after  the  ladies  all  my  life.  You  know  how  it 
is  with  men." 

"  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 

"  No,  you  don't  either,"  retorted  he.  "  You're  one 
of  those  cold,  stand-me-off  women  who  can't  compre 
hend  the  nature  of  man." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  she.  In  her  eyes  there  was  a 
gleam  that  more  than  suggested  a  possibility  of  some 

255 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


man  —  some  man  she  might  fancy  —  seeing  an  amaz 
ingly  different  Cyrilla  Brindley. 

"  I  may  say  I  was  daft  about  pretty  women,"  con 
tinued  Baird.  "  I  never  read  an  item  about  a  pretty 
woman  in  the  papers,  or  saw  a  picture  of  a  pretty  woman 
that  I  didn't  wish  I  knew  her  —  well.  Can  you  imagine 
that?  "  laughed  he. 

"  Commonplace,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  All  men  are  so. 
That's  why  the  papers  always  describe  the  woman  as 
pretty  and  why  the  pictures  are  published." 

"  Really  ?  ,Yes,  I  suppose  so."  Baird  looked  cha 
grined.  "  Anyhow,  here  I  am,  all  for  one  woman. 
And  why?  I  can't  explain  it  to  myself.  She's  pretty, 
lovely,  entrancing  sometimes.  She  has  charm,  grace, 
sweetness.  She  dresses  well  and  carries  herself  with  a 
kind  of  sweet  haughtiness.  She  looks  as  if  she  knew  a 
lot  —  and  nothing  bad.  Do  you  know,  I  can't  imagine 
her  having  been  married  to  that  beast!  I've  tried  to 
imagine  it.  I  simply  can't." 

"  I  shouldn't  try  if  I  were  you,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 

"  But  I  was  talking  about  why  I  love  her.  Does  this 
bore  you  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  laughed  Cyrilla.  "  I'd  rather  hear  some 
man  talking  about  my  charms.  But  go  on.  You  are 
amusing,  in  a  way." 

"  I'll  wager  I  am.  You  never  thought  I'd  be  caught? 
I  believed  I  was  immune  —  vaccinated  against  it.  I 
thought  I  knew  all  the  tricks  and  turns  of  the  sex.  Yet 
here  I  am !  " 

"  What  do  you  think  caught  you  ?  " 

"  That's  the  mystery.  It's  simply  that  I  can't  do 
256 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


without  her.  Everything  she  looks  and  says  and  does 
interests  me  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  And 
when  I'm  not  with  her  I'm  wishing  I  were  and  wondering 
how  she's  looking  or  what  she's  saying  or  doing.  You 
don't  think  she'll  refuse  me  ? "  This  last  with  real 
anxiety. 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  replied  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  She's 
—  peculiar.  In  some  moods  she  would.  In  others,  she 
couldn't.  And  I've  never  been  able  to  settle  to  my  sat 
isfaction  which  kind  of  mood  was  the  real  Mary 
Stevens." 

"  She  is  queer,  isn't  she?  "  said  Stanley  thoughtfully. 
"  But  I've  told  her  she'd  be  free  to  go  on  with  the 
career.  Fact  is,  I  want  her  to  do  it." 

Mrs.  Brindley's  eyes  twinkled.  "  You  think  it  would 
justify  you  to  your  set  in  marrying  her,  if  she  made 
a  great  hit?" 

Stanley  blushed  ingenuously.  "  I'll  not  deny  that  has 
something  to  do  with  it,"  he  admitted.  "  And  why 
not?  " 

"  Why  not,  indeed?  "  said  she.  "  But,  after  she  had 
made  the  hit,  you'd  want  her  to  quit  the  stage  and  take 
her  place  in  society.  Isn't  that  so  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  keen  one,"  exclaimed  he  admiringly. 
"  But  I  didn't  say  that  to  her.  And  you  won't,  will 
you?  " 

"  It's  hardly  necessary  to  ask  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brind 
ley.  "  Now,  suppose  —  You  don't  mind  my  talking 
about  this?" 

"  What  I  want,"  replied  he.  "  I  can't  talk  or  think 
anything  but  her." 

257 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Now,  suppose  she  shouldn't  make  a  hit.  Suppose 
she  should  fail  —  should  not  develop  reliable  voice 
enough?  " 

Stanley  looked  frightened.  "But  she  can't  fail," 
he  cried  with  over-energy.  "  There's  no  question  about 
her  voice." 

"  I  understand,"  Mrs.  Brindley  hastened  to  say.  "  I 
was  simply  making  conversation  with  her  as  the  sub- 
ject." 

"  Oh,  I  see."     Stanley  settled  back. 

"  Suppose  she  should  prove  not  to  be  a  great  artist  — 
what  then  ?  "  persisted  Cyrilla,  who  was  deeply  inter 
ested  in  the  intricate  obscure  problem  of  what  people 
really  thought  as  distinguished  from  what  they  pro 
fessed  and  also  from  what  they  imagined  they  thought. 

"  The  fact  that  she's  a  great  artist  —  that's  part  of 
her,"  said  Baird.  "  If  she  weren't  a  great  singer,  she 
wouldn't  be  she  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley  with  an  ironic  sad 
ness  which  she  indulged  openly  because  there  was  no 
danger  of  his  understanding. 

"  I  don't  exactly  love  her  because  she  amounts  to  a 
lot  —  or  is  sure  to,"  pursued  he,  vaguely  dissatisfied 
with  himself.  "  It's  just  as  she  doesn't  care  for  me  be 
cause  I've  got  the  means  to  take  care  of  her  right,  yet 
that's  part  of  me  —  and  she'd  not  be  able  to  marry  me 
if  I  hadn't.  Don't  you  see?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley  with  more  irony 
and  less  sadness.  "  There's  always  some  reason  beside 
love." 

"  I'd  say  there's  always  some  reason  for  love,"  said 
258 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Baird,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  said  something  brilliant  — 
as  is  the  habit  of  people  of  sluggish  mentality  when 
they  say  a  thing  they  do  not  themselves  understand. 
"  You  don't  doubt  that  I  love  her?  "  he  went  on.  "  Why 
should  I  ask  her  to  marry  me  if  I  didn't?  " 

"  I  suppose  that  settles  it,"  said  Cyrilla. 

"  Of  course  it  does,"  declared  he. 

For  an  hour  he  sat  there,  talking  on,  most  of  it  a 
pretty  dull  kind  of  drivel.  Mrs.  Brindley  listened  pa 
tiently,  because  she  liked  him  and  because  she  had 
nothing  else  to  do  until  bedtime.  At  last  he  rose  with 
a  long  sigh  and  said: 

"  I  guess  I  might  as  well  be  going." 

"  She'll   not   come    in   to-night   again,"    said   Cyrilla 

slyly. 

He  laughed.  "  You  are  a  good  one.  I'll  own  up, 
I've  been  staying  on  partly  in  the  hope  that  she'd  come 
back.  But  it's  been  a  great  joy  to  talk  to  you  about 
her.  I  know  you  love  her,  too." 

"  Yes,  I'm  extremely  fond  of  her,"  said  she.  "  I've 
not  known  many  women  —  many  people  without  petty 
mean  tricks.  She's  one." 

"  Isn't  she,  though?  "  exclaimed  he. 

"  I  don't  mean  she's  perfect,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 
"  I  don't  even  mean  that  she's  as  angelic  as  you  think 
her.  I'd  not  like  her,  if  she  were.  But  she's  a  superior 
kind  of  human." 

She  was  tired  of  him  now,  and  got  him  out  speedily. 
As  she  closed  the  front  door  upon  him,  Mildred's  door, 
down  the  hall,  opened.  Her  head  appeared,  an  inquir 
ing  look  upon  her  face.  Mrs.  Brindley  nodded.  Mil- 

259 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


dred,  her  hair  done  close  to  her  head,  a  dressing-robe 
over  her  nightgown  and  her  bare  feet  in  little  slippers, 
came  down  the  hall.  She  coiled  herself  up  in  a  big 
chair  in  the  library  and  lit  a  cigarette.  She  looked 
like  a  handsome  young  boy. 

"  He  told  you?  "  she  said  to  Mrs.  Brindley. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Cyrilla. 

Silence.  In  all  their  intimate  acquaintance  there  had 
never  been  an  approach  to  the  confidential  on  either 
side.  It  was  Cyrilla's  notion  that  confidences  were  a 
mistake,  and  that  the  more  closely  people  were  thrown 
together  the  more  resolutely  they  ought  to  keep  certain 
barriers  between  them.  She  and  Mildred  got  on  too 
admirably,  liked  each  other  too  well,  for  there  to  be 
any  trifling  with  their  relations  —  and  over-intimacy 
inevitably  led  to  trifling.  Mildred  had  restrained  her 
self  because  Mrs.  Brindley  had  compelled  it  by  rigid 
example.  Often  she  had  longed  to  talk  things  over, 
to  ask  advice;  but  she  had  never  ventured  further  than 
generalities,  and  Mrs.  Brindley  had  never  proffered 
advice,  had  never  accepted  opportunities  to  give  it  ex 
cept  in  the  vaguest  way.  She  had  taught  Mildred  a 
great  deal,  but  always  by  example,  by  doing,  never  by 
saying  what  ought  or  ought  not  to  be  done.  Thus, 
such  development  of  Mildred's  character  as  there  had 
been  was  natural  and  permanent. 

"  He  has  put  me  in  a  peculiar  position,"  said  Mil 
dred.  "  Or,  rather,  I  have  let  myself  drift  into  a 
peculiar  position.  For  I  think  you're  right  in  saying 
that  oneself  is  always  to  blame.  Won't  you  let  me  talk 
about  it  to  you,  please?  I  know  you  hate  confidences. 

260 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


But  I've  got  to  —  to  talk.  I'd  like  you  to  advise  me, 
if  you  can.  But  even  if  you  don't,  it'll  do  me  good  to 
say  things  aloud." 

"  Often  one  sees  more  clearly,"  was  Cyrilla's  reply  — 
noncommittal,  yet  not  discouraging. 

"  I'm  free  to  marry  him,"  Mildred  went  on.  "  That 
is,  I'm  not  married.  I'd  rather  not  explain  — " 

"Don't,"  said  Mrs.   Brindley.     "It's  unnecessary." 

"  You  know  that  it's  Stanley  who  has  been  lending 
me  the  money  to  live  on  while  I  study.  Well,  from 
the  beginning  I've  been  afraid  I'd  find  myself  in  a 
difficult  position." 

"  Naturally,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley,  as  she  paused. 

"  But  I've  always  expected  it  to  come  in  another 
way  —  not  about  marriage,  but — " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  "  You  feared 
you'd  be  called  on  to  pay  in  the  way  women  usually 
pay  debts  to  men." 

Mildred  nodded.  "  But  this  is  worse  than  I  expected 
—  much  worse." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Cyrilla.  "Yes, 
you're  right.  If  he  had  hinted  the  other  thing,  you 
could  have  pretended  not  to  understand.  If  he  had 
suggested  it,  you  could  have  made  him  feel  cheap  and 
mean." 

"  I  did,"  said  Mildred.  "  He  has  been  —  really  won 
derful  —  better  than  almost  any  man  would  have  been  — 
more  considerate  than  I  deserved.  And  I  took  advan 
tage  of  it." 

"A  woman  has  to,"  said  Cyrilla.  "The  fight  be 
tween  men  and  women  is  so  unequal." 

261 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  took  advantage  of  him,"  repeated  Mildred. 
"  And  he  apologized,  and  I  —  I  went  on  taking  the 
money.  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do.  Isn't  that 
dreadful?" 

"  Nothing  to  be  proud  of,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  But  a 
very  usual  transaction." 

"  And  then,"  pursued  Mildred,  "  I  discovered  that 
I  —  that  I'd  not  be  able  to  make  a  career.  But  still 
I  kept  on,  though  I've  been  trying  to  force  myself  to  — 
to  show  some  pride  and  self-respect.  I  discovered  it 
only  a  short  time  ago,  and  it  wasn't  really  until  to-day 
that  I  was  absolutely  sure." 

"  You  are  sure?  " 

"There's  hardly  a  doubt,"  replied  Mildred.  "But 
never  mind  that  now.  I've  got  to  make  a  living  at 
something,  and  while  I'm  learning  whatever  it  is,  I've 
got  to  have  money  to  live  on.  And  I  can  get  it  only 
from  him.  Now,  he  asks  me  to  marry  him.  He 
wouldn't  ask  me  if  he  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  be 
a  great  singer.  He  doesn't  know  it,  but  I  do." 

Mrs.  Brindley  smiled  sweetly. 

"  And  he  thinks  that  I  love  him,  also.  If  I  accept 
him,  it  will  be  under  doubly  false  pretenses.  If  I  refuse 
him  I've  got  to  stop  taking  the  money." 

A  long  silence ;  then  Mrs.  Brindley  said :  "  Women  — 
the  good  ones,  too  —  often  feel  that  they've  a  right  to 
treat  men  as  men  treat  them.  I  think  almost  any  woman 
would  feel  justified  in  putting  off  the  crisis." 

"  You  mean,  I  might  tell  him  I'd  give  him  my  answer 
when  I  was  independent  and  had  paid  back." 

Cyrilla  nodded.  Mildred  relit  her  cigarette,  which 
262 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she  had  let  go  out.  "  I  had  thought  of  that,"  said  she. 
"But  — I  doubt  if  he'd  tolerate  it.  Also "—  she 
laughed  with  the  peculiar  intonation  that  accompanies 
the  lifting  of  the  veil  over  a  deeply  and  carefully  hidden 
corner  of  one's  secret  self  — "  I  am  afraid.  If  I  don't 
marry  him,  in  a  few  weeks,  or  months  at  most,  he'll 
probably  find  out  that  I  shall  never  be  a  great  singer, 
and  then  I'd  not  be  able  to  marry  him  if  I  wished  to." 

"  He  is  a  temptation,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  That  is,  his 
money  is  —  and  he  personally  is  very  nice." 

"  I  married  a  man  I  didn't  care  for,"  pursued  Mil 
dred.  "  I  don't  want  ever  to  do  that  again.  It  is  — 
even  in  the  best  circumstances  —  not  agreeable,  not  as 
simple  as  it  looks  to  the  inexperienced  girls  who  are 
always  doing  it." 

"  Still,  a  woman  can  endure  that  sort  of  thing,"  said 
Mrs.  Brindley,  "  unless  she  happens  to  be  in  love  with 
another  man."  She  was  observing  the  unconscious  Mil 
dred  narrowly,  a  state  of  inward  tension  and  excitement 
hinted  in  her  face,  but  not  in  her  voice. 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Mildred,  her  face  carefully 
averted.  "I  —  I  happen  to  be  in  love  with  another 
man." 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  Cyrilla's  face. 

"  A  man  who  cares  nothing  about  me  —  and  never 
will.  He's  just  a  friend  —  so  much  the  friend  that  he 
couldn't  possibly  think  of  me  as  —  as  a  woman,  needing 
him  and  wanting  him  " —  her  eyes  were  on  fire  now,  and 
a  soft  glow  had  come  into  her  cheeks  — "  and  never 
daring  to  show  it  because  if  I  did  he  would  fly  and  never 
let  me  see  him  again." 

263 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Cjrilla  Brindley's  face  was  tragic  as  she  looked  at 
the  beautiful  girl,  so  gracefully  adjusted  to  the  big 
chair.  She  sighed  covertly.  "  You  are  lovely,"  she 
said,  "  and  young  —  above  all,  young." 

"  This  man  is  peculiar,"  replied  Mildred  forlornly. 
"  Anyhow,  he  doesn't  want  me.  He  knows  me  for  the 
futile,  weak,  worthless  creature  I  am.  He  saw  through 
my  bluff,  even  before  I  saw  through  it  myself.  If  it 
weren't  for  him,  I  could  go  ahead  —  do  the  sensible 
thing  —  do  as  women  usually  do.  But  — "  She  came 
to  a  full  stop. 

"  Love  is  a  woman's  sense  of  honor,"  said  Cyrilla 
softly.  "  We're  merciless  and  unscrupulous  —  any 
thing  —  everything  —  where  we  don't  love.  But  where 
we  do  love,  we'll  go  farther  for  honor  than  the  most 
honorable  man.  That's  why  we're  both  worse  and  bet 
ter  than  men  —  and  seem  to  be  so  contradictory  and 
puzzling." 

"  I'd  do  anything  for  him,"  said  Mildred.  She  smiled 
drearily.  "  And  he  wants  nothing." 

She  had  nothing  more  to  say.  She  had  talked  herself 
out  about  Stanley,  and  her  mind  was  now  filled  with 
thoughts  that  could  not  be  spoken.  As  she  rose  to 
go  to  bed,  she  looked  appealingly  at  Cyrilla.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  and  shy  rush  she  flung  her  arms  round 
her  and  kissed  her.  "  Thank  you  —  so  much,"  she  said. 
"  You've  done  me  a  world  of  good.  Saying  it  all  out 
loud  before  you  has  made  me  see.  I  know  my  own 
mind,  now." 

She  did  not  note  the  pathetic  tenderness  of  Cyrilla's 
face  as  she  said,  "  Good  night,  Mildred."  But  she  did 

264 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


note  the  use  of  her  first  name  —  and  her  own  right  first 
name  —  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  known  each 
other.  She  embraced  and  kissed  her  again.  "  Good 
night,  Cyrilla,"  she  said  gratefully. 

As  she  entered  Jennings's  studio  the  next  day  he  looked 
at  her ;  and  when  Jennings  looked,  he  saw  —  as  must 
anyone  who  lives  well  by  playing  upon  human  nature. 
He  did  not  like  her  expression.  She  did  not  habitually 
smile ;  her  light-heartedness,  her  optimism,  did  not  show 
themselves  in  that  inane  way.  But  this  seriousness  of 
hers  was  of  a  new  kind,  of  the  kind  that  bespeaks  sobri 
ety  and  saneness  of  soul.  And  that  kind  of  serious 
ness  —  the  deep,  inward  gravity  of  a  person  whose 
days  of  trifling  with  themselves  and  with  the  facts  of 
life,  and  of  being  trifled  with,  are  over  —  would  have 
impressed  Jennings  equally  had  she  come  in  laughing, 
had  her  every  word  been  a  jest. 

66  No,  I  didn't  come  for  a  lesson  —  at  least  not  the 
usual  kind,"  said  she. 

He  was  not  one  to  yield  without  a  struggle.  Also 
he  wished  to  feel  his  way  to  the  meaning  of  this  new 
mood.  He  put  her  music  on  the  rack.  "  We'll  begin 
where  we  — " 

"  This  half -hour  of  your  time  is  mine,  is  it  not?  " 
said  she  quietly.  "  Let's  not  waste  any  of  it.  Yester 
day  you  told  me  that  I  could  not  hope  to  make  a  career 
because  my  voice  is  unreliable.  Why  is  it  unreliable?  " 

"  Because  you  have  a  delicate  throat,"  replied  he, 
yielding  at  once  where  he  instinctively  knew  he  could 
not  win. 

265 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Then  why  can  I  sing  so  well  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Because  your  throat  is  in  good  condition  some  days 

—  in  perfect  condition." 

"  It's  the  colds  then  —  and  the  slight  attacks  of 
colds?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  If  I  did  not  catch  colds  —  if  I  kept  perfectly  well 

—  could  I  rely  on  my  voice  ?  " 

"  But  that's  impossible,"  said  he. 

"Why?" 

"  You're  not  strong  enough." 

"  Then  I  haven't  the  physical  strength  for  a  career?  " 

"  That  —  and  also  you  are  lacking  in  muscular  de 
velopment.  But  after  several  years  of  lessons  — " 

"  If  I  developed  my  muscles  —  if  I  became  strong  — " 

"  Most  of  the  great  singers  come  from  the  lower 
classes  —  from  people  who  do  manual  labor.  They  did 
manual  labor  in  their  youth.  You  girls  of  the  better 
class  have  to  overcome  that  handicap." 

"  But  so  many  of  the  great  singers  are  fat." 

"  Yes,  and  under  that  fat  you'll  find  great  ropes  of 
muscle  —  like  a  blacksmith." 

"  What  Keith  meant,"  she  said.  "  I  wonder  — 
Why  do  I  catch  cold  so  easily?  Why  do  I  almost  al 
ways  have  a  slight  catch  in  the  throat?  Have  you 
noticed  that  I  nearly  always  have  to  clear  my  throat 
just  a  little?" 

Her  expression  held  him.  He  hesitated,  tried  to 
evade,  gave  it  up.  "  Until  that  passes,  you  can  never 
hope  to  be  a  thoroughly  reliable  singer,"  said  he. 

"  That  is,  I  can't  hope  to  make  a  career?  " 
266 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


His  silence  was  assent. 

"  But  I  have  the  voice  ?  " 

"  You  have  the  voice." 

'"  An  unusual  voice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  not  so  unusual  as  might  be  thought.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  thousands  of  fine  voices. 
The  trouble  is  in  reliability.  Only  a  few  are  reliable." 

She  nodded  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  *'  I  begin  to 
understand  what  Mr.  Keith  meant,"  she  said.  "  I  be 
gin  to  see  what  I  have  to  do,  and  how  —  how  impossible 
it  is." 

"  By  no  means,"  declared  Jennings.  "  If  I  did  not 
think  otherwise,  I'd  not  be  giving  my  time  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  gravely.  His  eyes  shifted,  then 
returned  defiantly,  aggressively.  She  said: 

"  You  can't  help  me  to  what  I  want.  So  this  is 
my  last  lesson  —  for  the  present.  I  may  come  back 
some  day  —  when  I  am  ready  for  what  you  have  to 
give." 

"  You  are  going  to  give  upi  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  —  oh,  dear  me,  no,"  replied  she.  "  I  realize 
that  you're  laughing  in  your  sleeve  as  I  say  so,  because 
you  think  I'll  never  get  anywhere.  But  you  —  and 
Mr.  Keith  —  may  be  mistaken."  She  drew  from  her 
muff  a  piece  of  music  —  the  "  Batti  Batti,"  from  "  Don 
Giovanni."  "  If  you  please,"  said  she,  "  we'll  spend 
the  rest  of  my  time  in  going  over  this.  I  want  to  be 
able  to  sing  it  as  well  as  possible." 

He  looked  searchingly  at  her.  "  If  you  wish,"  said 
he.  "  But  I  doubt  if  you'll  be  able  to  sing  at  all." 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  cold's  entirely  gone,"  replied 
267 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she.  "  I  had  an  exciting  evening,  I  doctored  myself  be 
fore  I  went  to  bed,  and  three  or  four  times  in  the  night. 
I  found,  this  morning,  that  I  could  sing." 

And  it  was  so.  Never  had  she  sung  better.  "  Like 
a  true  artist ! "  he  declared  with  an  enthusiasm  that  had 
a  foundation  of  sincerity.  "  You  know,  Miss  Stevens, 
you  came  very  near  to  having  that  rarest  of  all  gifts  — 
a  naturally  placed  voice.  If  you  hadn't  had  singing 
teachers  as  a  girl  to  make  you  self-conscious  and  to  teach 
you  wrong,  you'd  have  been  a  wonder." 

"  I  may  get  it  back,"  said  Mildred. 

"  That  never  happens,"  replied  he.  "  But  I  can  al 
most  do  it." 

He  coached  her  for  half  an  hour  straight  ahead, 
sending  the  next  pupil  into  the  adj  oining  room  —  an 
unprecedented  transgression  of  routine.  He  showed 
her  for  the  first  time  what  a  teacher  he  could  be,  when 
he  wished.  There  was  an  astonishing  difference  be 
tween  her  first  singing  of  the  song  and  her  sixth 
and  last  —  for  they  went  through  it  carefully  five 
times.  She  thanked  him  and  then  put  out  her  hand, 
saying : 

"  This  is  a  long  good-by." 

"  To-morrow,"  replied  he,  ignoring  her  hand. 

"  No.  My  money  is  all  gone.  Besides,  I  have  no 
time  for  amateur  trifling." 

"  Your  lessons  are  paid  for  until  the  end  of  the 
month.  This  is  only  the  nineteenth." 

"  Then  you  are  so  much  in."  Again  she  put  out  her 
hand. 

He  took  it.     "  You  owe  me  an  explanation." 
268 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


She  smiled  mockingly.  "  As  a  friend  of  mine  says, 
don't  ask  questions  to  which  you  already  know  the  an 
swer." 

And  she  departed,  the  smile  still  on  her  charming 
face,  but  the  new  seriousness  beneath  it.  As  she  had 
anticipated,  she  found  Stanley  Baird  waiting  for  her 
in  the  drawing-room  of  the  apartment.  Being  by 
habit  much  interested  in  his  own  emotions  and  not  at 
all  in  the  emotions  of  others,  he  saw  only  the  healthful 
radiance  the  sharp  October  air  had  put  into  her  cheeks 
and  eyes.  Certainly,  to  look  at  Mildred  Gower  was  to 
get  no  impression  of  lack  of  health  and  strength.  Her 
glance  wavered  a  little  at  sight  of  him,  then  the  expres 
sion  of  firmness  came  back. 

"  You  look  like  that  picture  you  gave  me  a  long  time 
ago,"  said  he.  "  Do  you  remember  it?  " 

She  did  not. 

"  It  has  a  —  different  expression,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
don't  think  I'd  have  noticed  it  but  for  Keith.  I  hap 
pened  to  show  it  to  him  one  day,  and  he  stared  at  it  in 
that  way  he  has  —  you  know?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mildred.  She  was  seeing  those 
uncanny,  brilliant,  penetrating  eyes,  in  such  startling 
contrast  to  the  calm,  lifeless  coloring  and  classic  chisel 
ing  of  features. 

"  And  after  a  while  he  said,  '  So,  that's  Miss  Stev 
ens  ! '  And  I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  and  he  took 
one  of  your  later  photos  and  put  the  two  side  by  side. 
To  my  notion  the  later  was  a  lot  the  more  attractive, 
for  the  face  was  rounder  and  softer  and  didn't  have  a 
certain  kind  of  —  well,  hardness,  as  if  you  had  a  will 

269 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and    could    ride    rough    shod.     Not   that   you    look    so 
frightfully  unattractive." 

"  I  remember  the  picture,"  interrupted  Mildred.     "  It 
was  taken    when    I    was    twenty  —  j  ust    after    an    ill 


"  The  face  was  thin,"  said  Stanley.  "  Keith  called  it 
a  4  give  away.'  ' 

"  I'd  like  to  see  it,"  said  Mildred. 

"I'll  try  to  find  it.  But  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  I 
haven't  seen  it  since  I  showed  it  to  Keith,  and  when  I 
hunted  for  it  the  other  day,  it  didn't  turn  up.  I've 
changed  valets  several  times  in  the  last  six  months  —  " 

But  Mildred  had  ceased  listening.  Keith  had  seen  the 
picture,  had  called  it  a  "  give  away,"  had  been  inter 
ested  in  it  —  and  the  picture  had  disappeared.  She 
laughed  at  her  own  folly,  yet  she  was  glad  Stanley  had 
given  her  this  chance  to  make  up  a  silly  day-dream. 
She  waited  until  he  had  exhausted  himself  on  the  sub 
ject  of  valets,  their  drunkenness,  their  thievish  habits, 
their  incompetence,  then  she  said: 

"  I  took  my  last  lesson  from  Jennings  to-day." 

"What's  the  matter?  Do  you  want  to  change? 
You  didn't  say  anything  about  it?  Isn't  he  good?  " 

"  Good  enough.  But  I've  discovered  that  my  voice 
isn't  reliable,  and  unless  one  has  a  reliable  voice  there's 
no  chance  for  a  grand-opera  career  —  or  for  comic 
opera,  either." 

Stanley  was  straightway  all  agitation  and  protest. 
"  Who  put  that  notion  in  your  head?  There's  nothing 
in  it,  Mildred.  Jennings  is  crazy  about  your  voice, 
and  he  knows." 

270 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Jennings  is  after  the  money,"  replied  Mildred. 
"  What  I'm  saying  is  the  truth.  Stanley,  our  beauti 
ful  dream  of  a  career  has  winked  out." 

His  expression  was  most  revealing. 

"  And,"  she  went  on,  "  I'm  not  going  to  take  any 
more  of  your  money  —  and,  of  course,  I'll  pay  back 
what  I've  borrowed  when  I  can  " —  she  smiled  — "  which 
may  not  be  very  soon." 

"  What's  all  this  about,  anyhow?  "  demanded  he.  "  I 
don't  see  any  sign  of  it  in  your  face.  You  wouldn't 
take  it  so  coolly  if  it  were  so." 

"  I  don't  understand  why  I'm  not  wringing  my  hands 
and  weeping,"  replied  she.  "  Every  few  minutes  I  tell 
myself  that  I  ought  to  be.  But  I  stay  quite  calm.  I 
suppose  I'm  —  sort  of  stupefied." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  you've  given  up  ?  "  cried 
he. 

"  It's  no  use  to  waste  the  money,  Stanley.  I've  got 
the  voice,  and  that's  what  deceived  us  all.  But  there's 
nothing  behind  the  voice.  With  a  great  singer  the 
greatness  is  in  what's  behind  the  voice,  not  in  the  voice 
itself." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  cried  he  violently. 
"  You've  been  discouraged  by  a  little  cold.  Every 
body  has  colds.  Why,  in  this  climate  the  colds  are  al 
ways  getting  the  Metropolitan  singers  down." 

"  But  they've  got  strong  throats,  and  my  throat's 
delicate." 

"  You  must  go  to  a  better  climate.  You  ought  to  be 
abroad,  anyhow.  That  was  part  of  my  plan  —  for  us 
to  go  abroad — "  He  stopped  in  confusion,  reddened, 

271 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


went  bravely  on  — "  and  you  to  study  there  and  make 
your  debut." 

Mildred  shook  her  head.  "  That's  all  over,"  said  she. 
"  I've  got  to  change  my  plans  entirely." 

"  You're  a  little  depressed,  that's  all.  For  a  minute 
you  almost  convinced  me.  What  a  turn  you  did  give 
me!  I  forgot  how  your  voice  sounded  the  last  time 
I  heard  it.  No,  you'd  not  be  so  calm,  if  you  didn't 
know  everything  was  all  right." 

Her  eyes  lit  up  with  sly  humor.  "  Perhaps  I'm 
calm  because  I  feel  that  my  future's  secure  as  your  wife. 
What  more  could  a  woman  ask  ?  " 

He  forced  an  uncomfortable  laugh.  "  Of  course  — 
of  course,"  he  said  with  a  painful  effort  to  be  easy  and 
jocose. 

"  I  knew  you'd  marry  me,  even  if  I  couldn't  sing  a 
note.  I  knew  your  belief  in  my  career  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it." 

He  hesitated,  blurted  out  the  truth.  "  Speaking 
seriously,  that  isn't  quite  so,"  said  he.  "  I've  got  my 
heart  set  on  your  making  a  great  tear  —  and  I  know 
you'll  do  it." 

"  And  if  you  knew  I  wouldn't,  you'd  not  want  to 
marry  me?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  protested  he.  "  How  can  I  say 
how  I'd  feel  if  you  were  different?  " 

She  nodded.  "  That's  sensible,  and  it's  candid,"  she 
said.  She  laid  her  hand  impulsively  on  his  arm.  "  I 
do  like  you,  Stanley.  You  have  got  such  a  lot  of  good 
qualities.  Don't  worry.  I'm  not  going  to  insist  on 


your  marrying  me." 


272 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  don't  have  to  do  that,  Mildred,"  said  he. 
"  I'm  staring,  raving  crazy  about  you,  though  I'm  a 
damn  fool  to  let  you  know  it." 

"  Yes,  it  is  foolish,"  said  she.  "  If  you'd  kept  me 
worrying  —  Still,  I  guess  not.  But  it  doesn't  matter. 
You  can  protest  and  urge  all  you  please,  quite  safely. 
I'm  not  going  to  marry  you.  Now  let's  talk  busi 
ness." 

"  Let's  talk  marriage,"  said  he.  "  I  want  this  thing 
settled.  You  know  you  intend  to  marry  me,  Mildred. 
Why  not  say  so  ?  Why  keep  me  gasping  on  the  hook  ?  " 

They  heard  the  front  door  open,  and  the  rustling  of 
skirts  down  the  hall.  Mildred  called: 

"Mrs.  Brindley!     Cyrilla!" 

An  instant  and  Cyrilla  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
When  she  and  Baird  had  shaken  hands,  Mildred  said: 

"  Cyrilla,  I  want  you  to  tell  the  exact,  honest  truth. 
Is  there  any  hope  for  a  woman  with  a  delicate  throat  to 
make  a  grand-opera  career?  " 

Cyrilla  paled,  looked  pleadingly  at  Mildred. 

"  Tell  him,"  commanded  Mildred. 

"  Very  little,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.     "  But  — " 

"  Don't  try  to  soften  it,"  interrupted  Mildred. 
"  The  truth,  the  plain  truth." 

"  You've  no  right  to  draw  me  into  this,"  cried  Cyrilla 
indignantly,  and  she  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"  I  want  him  to  know,"  said  Mildred.  "  And  he 
wants  to  know." 

"  I  refuse  to  be  drawn  into  it,"  Cyrilla  said,  and 
disappeared. 

But  Mildred  saw  that  Stanley  had  been  shaken.  She 
273 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


proceeded  to  explain  to  him  at  length  what  a  singer's 
career  meant  —  the  hardships,  the  drafts  on  health  and 
strength,  the  absolute  necessity  of  being  reliable,  of 
singing  true,  of  not  disappointing  audiences  —  what 
a  delicate  throat  meant  —  how  delicate  her  throat  was 
—  how  deficient  she  was  in  the  kind  of  physical  strength 
needed  —  muscular  power  with  endurance  back  of  it. 
When  she  finished  he  understood. 

"  I'd  always  thought  of  it  as  an  art,"  he  said  rue 
fully.  "  Why,  it's  mostly  health  and  muscles  and 
things  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  music."  He  was 
dazed  and  offended  by  this  uncovering  of  the  mechanism 
of  the  art  —  by  the  discovery  of  the  coarse  and  pain 
ful  toil,  the  grossly  physical  basis,  of  what  had  seemed 
to  him  all  idealism.  He  had  been  full  of  the  delusions 
of  spontaneity  and  inspiration,  like  all  laymen,  and  all 
artists,  too,  except  those  of  the  higher  ranks  —  those 
who  have  fought  their  way  up  to  the  heights  and,  so, 
have  learned  that  one  does  not  achieve  them  by  being 
caught  up  to  them  gloriously  in  a  fiery  cloud,  but  by 
doggedly  and  dirtily  and  sweatily  toiling  over  every  inch 
of  the  cruel  climb. 

He  sat  silent  when  she  had  finished.  She  waited, 
then  said: 

"  Now,  you  see.  I  release  you,  and  I'll  take  no  more 
money  to  waste." 

He  looked  at  her  with  dumb  misery  that  smote  her 
heart.  Then  his  expression  changed  —  to  the  shining, 
hungry  eyes,  the  swollen  veins,  the  reddened  counte 
nance,  the  watering  lips  of  desire.  He  seized  her  in  his 
arms,  and  in  a  voice  trembling  with  passion,  he  cried: 

274 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  must  marry  me,  anyhow !     I've  got  to  have  you, 
Mildred." 

If  she  had  loved  him,  his  expression,  his  impassioned 
voice  would  have  thrilled  her.  But  she  did  not  love  him. 
It  took  all  her  liking  for  him,  and  the  memory  of  all 
she  owed  him  —  that  unpaid  debt !  —  to  enable  her  to 
push  him  away  gently  and  to  say  without  any  show  of 
the  repulsion  she  felt: 

"  Stanley,  you  mustn't  do  that.  And  it's  useless  to 
talk  of  marriage.  You're  generous,  so  you  are  taking 
pity  on  me.  But  believe  me,  I'll  get  along  somehow." 

"  Pity  ?  I  tell  you  I  love  you,"  he  cried,  catching 
desperately  at  her  hands  and  holding  them  in  a  grip 
she  could  not  break.  "  You've  no  right  to  treat  me 
like  this." 

It  was  one  of  those  veiled  and  stealthy  reminders  of 
obligation  habitually  indulged  in  by  delicate  people 
seeking  repayment  of  the  debt,  but  shunning  the  coarse 
ness  of  direct  demand.  Mildred  saw  her  opportunity. 
Said  she  quietly: 

"  You  mean  you  want  me  to  give  myself  to  you  in 
payment,  or  part  payment,  for  the  money  you've  loaned 
me?" 

He  released  her  hands  and  sprang  up.  He  had 
meant  just  that,  but  he  had  not  had  the  courage,  or  the 
meanness,  or  both,  to  admit  boldly  his  own  secret  wish. 
She  had  calculated  on  this  —  had  calculated  well. 
"  Mildred ! "  he  cried  in  a  shocked  voice.  "  You  so 
lacking  in  delicacy  as  to  say  such  a  thing ! " 

"  If  you  didn't  mean  that,  Stanley,  what  did  you 
mean?" 

275 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  was  appealing  to  our  friendship  —  our  —  our 
love  for  each  other." 

"  Then  you  should  have  waited  until  I  was  free." 

"  Good  God!  "  he  cried,  "  don't  you  see  that's  hope 
less?  Mildred,  be  sensible  —  be  merciful." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  a  man  when  he  could  justly 
suspect  I  did  it  to  live  off  him." 

"  What  an  idea !  It's  a  man's  place  to  support  a 
woman ! " 

"  I  was  speaking  only  of  myself.  I  can't  do  it. 
And  it's  absurd  for  you  and  me  to  be  talking  about  love 
and  marriage  when  anyone  can  see  I'd  be  marrying  you 
only  because  I  was  afraid  to  face  poverty  and  a  strug- 
gle." 

Her  manner  calmed  him  somewhat.  "  Of  course  it's 
obvious  that  you've  got  to  have  money,"  said  he,  "  and 
that  the  only  way  you  can  get  it  is  by  marriage.  But 
there's  something  else,  too,  and  in  my  opinion  it's  the 
principal  thing  —  we  care  for  each  other.  Why  not  be 
sensible,  Mildred?  Why  not  thank  God  that  as  long  as 
you  have  to  marry,  you  can  marry  someone  you  care 
for." 

"  Could  you  feel  that  I  cared  for  you,  if  I  married 
you  now  ?  "  inquired  she. 

"  Why  not  ?  I'm  not  so  entirely  lacking  in  self- 
esteem.  I  feel  that  I  must  count  for  something." 

Mildred  sat  silently  wondering  at  this  phenomenon  so 
astounding,  yet  a  commonplace  of  masculine  egotism. 
She  had  no  conception  of  this  vanity  which  causes  the 
man,  at  whom  the  street  woman  smiles,  to  feel  flattered, 
though  he  knows  full  well  what  she  is  and  her  dire  ne- 

276 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


cessity.  She  could  not  doubt  that  he  was  speaking  the 
truth,  yet  she  could  not  believe  that  conceit  could  so 
befog  common  sense  in  a  man  who,  for  all  his  slowness 
and  shallowness,  was  more  than  ordinarily  shrewd. 

"  Even  if  I  thought  I  loved  you,"  said  she,  "  I 
couldn't  be  sure  in  these  circumstances  that  I  wasn't 
after  your  money." 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,"  replied  he.  "  I  under 
stand  you  better  than  you  understand  yourself." 

"  Let's  stop  talking  about  it,"  said  she  impatiently. 
"  I  want  to  explain  to  you  the  business  side  of  this." 
She  took  her  purse  from  the  table.  "  Here  are  the 
papers."  She  handed  him  a  check  and  a  note.  "  I 
made  them  out  at  the  bank  this  morning.  The  note  is 
for  what  I  owe  you  —  and  draws  interest  at  four  per 
cent.  The  check  is  for  all  the  money  I  have  left  except 
about  four  hundred  dollars.  I've  some  bills  I  must  pay, 
and  also  I  didn't  dare  quite  strip  myself.  The  note  may 
not  be  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on,  but  I  hope — " 

Before  she  could  prevent  him  he  took  the  two  papers, 
and,  holding  them  out  of  her  reach,  tore  them  to  bits. 

Her  eyes  gleamed  angrily.  "  I  see  you  despise  me 
—  as  much  as  I've  invited.  But,  I'll  make  them  out 
again  and  mail  them  to  you." 

"  You're  a  silly  child,"  said  he  gruffly.  "  We're  go 
ing  to  be  married." 

She  eyed  him  with  amused  exasperation.  "  It's  too 
absurd !  "  she  cried.  "  And  if  I  yielded,  you'd  be  try 
ing  to  get  out  of  it."  She  hesitated  whether  to  tell  him 
frankly  just  how  she  felt  toward  him.  She  decided 
against  it?  not  through  consideration  —  for  a  woman 

277 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


feels  no  consideration  for  a  man  she  does  not  love,  if  he 
has  irritated  her  —  but  through  being  ashamed  to  say 
harsh  things  to  one  whom  she  owed  so  much.  u  It's  use 
less  for  you  to  pretend  and  to  plead,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
shall  not  yield.  You'll  have  to  wait  until  I'm  free  and 
independent." 

"You'll  marry  me  then?  " 

"  No,"  replied  she,  laughing.  "  But  I'll  be  able  to 
refuse  you  in  such  a  way  that  you'll  believe." 

"  But  you've  got  to  marry,  Mildred,  and  right  away." 
A  suspicion  entered  his  mind  and  instantly  gleamed  in 
his  eyes.  "  Are  you  in  love  with  someone  else  ?  " 

She  smiled  mockingly. 

"  It  looks  as  if  you  were,"  he  went  on,  arguing  with 
himself  aloud.  "  For  if  you  weren't  you'd  marry  me, 
even  though  you  didn't  like  me.  A  woman  in  your  fix 
simply  couldn't  keep  herself  from  it.  Is  that  why 
you're  so  calm  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  marrying  anybody,"  said  she. 

"  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  You'U  see." 

Once  more  the  passionate  side  of  his  nature  showed 
—  not  merely  grotesque,  unattractive,  repellent,  as  in 
the  mood  of  longing,  but  hideous.  Among  men  Stan 
ley  Baird  passed  for  a  man  of  rather  arrogant  and 
violent  temper,  but  that  man  who  had  seen  him  at  his 
most  violent  would  have  been  amazed.  The  temper  men 
show  toward  men  bears  small  resemblance  either  in  kind 
or  in  degree  to  the  temper  of  jealous  passion  they  show 
toward  the  woman  who  baffles  them  or  arouses  their  sus 
picions  ;  and  no  man  would  recognize  his  most  intimate 

278 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


man  friend  —  or  himself  —  when  in  that  paroxysm. 
Mildred  had  seen  this  mood,  gleaming  at  her  through 
a  mask,  in  General  Siddall.  It  had  made  her  sick  with 
fear  and  repulsion.  In  Stanley  Baird  it  first  astounded 
her,  then  filled  her  with  hate. 

"  Stanley  !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  he  ground  out  between  his  teeth.  And 
he  seized  her  savagely. 

"  If  you  don't  release  me  at  once,"  said  she  calmly, 
"  I  shall  call  Mrs.  Brindley,  and  have  you  put  out  of 
the  house.  No  matter  if  I  do  owe  you  all  that  money." 

"  Stop  1 "  he  cried,  releasing  her.  "  You're  very 
clever,  aren't  you  ?  —  turning  that  against  me  and  mak 
ing  me  powerless." 

"  But  for  that,  would  you  dare  presume  to  touch 
me,  to  question  me?"  said  she. 

He  lowered  his  gaze,  stood  panting  with  the  effort  to 
subdue  his  fury. 

She  went  back  to  her  own  room.  A  few  hours  later 
came  a  letter  of  apology  from  him.  She  answered  it 
friendlily,  said  she  would  let  him  know  when  she  could 
see  him  again,  and  enclosed  a  note  and  a  check. 


279 


VIII 

MILDRED  went  to  bed  that  night  proud  of  her 
strength  of  character.  Were  there  many  women  — 
was  there  any  other  woman  she  knew  or  knew  about  — 
who  in  her  desperate  circumstances  would  have  done 
what  she  had  done?  She  could  have  married  a  man 
who  would  have  given  her  wealth  and  the  very  best 
social  position.  She  had  refused  him.  She  could  have 
continued  to  "  borrow "  from  him  the  wherewithal 
to  keep  her  in  luxurious  comfort  while  she  looked  about 
at  her  ease  for  a  position  that  meant  independence. 
She  had  thrust  the  temptation  from  her.  All  this  from 
purely  high-minded  motives;  for  other  motive  there 
could  be  none.  She  went  to  sleep,  confident  that  on  the 
morrow  she  would  continue  to  tread  the  path  of  self- 
respect  with  unfaltering  feet.  But  when  morning  came 
her  throat  was  once  more  slightly  off  —  enough  to  make 
it  wise  to  postpone  the  excursion  in  search  of  a  trial 
for  musical  comedy.  The  excitement  or  the  reaction 
from  excitement  —  it  must  be  the  one  or  the  other  — 
had  resulted  in  weakness  showing  itself,  naturally,  at 
her  weakest  point  —  that  delicate  throat.  When  life 
was  calm  and  orderly,  and  her  mind  was  at  peace,  the 
trouble  would  pass,  and  she  could  get  a  position  of  some 
kind.  Not  the  career  she  had  dreamed;  that  was  im 
possible.  But  she  had  voice  enough  for  a  little  part, 

280 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


where  a  living  could  be  made;  and  perhaps  she  would 
presently  fathom  the  secret  of  the  cause  of  her  delicate 
throat  and  would  be  able  to  go  far  —  possibly  as  far  as 
she  had  dreamed. 

The  delay  of  a  few  days  was  irritating.  She  would 
have  preferred  to  push  straight  on,  while  her  courage 
was  taut.  Still,  the  delay  had  one  advantage  —  she 
could  prepare  the  details  of  her  plan.  So,  instead  of 
going  to  the  office  of  the  theatrical  manager  —  Cross- 
ley,  the  most  successful  producer  of  light,  musical  pieces 
of  all  kinds  —  she  went  to  call  on  several  of  the  girls 
she  knew  who  were  more  or  less  in  touch  with  matters 
theatrical.  And  she  found  out  just  how  to  proceed  to 
ward  accomplishing  a  purpose  which  ought  not  to  be 
difficult  for  one  with  such  a  voice  as  hers  and  with  phys 
ical  charms  peculiarly  fitted  for  stage  exhibition. 

Not  until  Saturday  was  her  voice  at  its  best  again. 
She,  naturally,  decided  not  to  go  to  the  theatrical  office 
on  Monday,  but  to  wait  until  she  had  seen  and  talked 
with  Keith.  One  more  day  did  not  matter,  and  Keith 
might  be  stimulating,  might  even  have  some  useful  sug 
gestions  to  offer.  She  received  him  with  a  manner  that 
was  a  version,  and  a  most  charming  version,  of  his  own 
tranquil  indifference.  But  his  first  remark  threw  her 
into  a  panic.  Said  he: 

"  I've  only  a  few  minutes.     No,  thanks,  I'll  not  sit." 

"  You  needn't  have  bothered  to  come,"  said  she 
coldly. 

"  I  always  keep  my  engagements.  Baird  tells  me 
you  have  given  up  the  arrangement  you  had  with  him. 
You'll  probably  be  moving  from  here,  as  you'll  not  have 

281 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  money  to  stay  on.  Send  me  your  new  address, 
please."  He  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it 
to  her.  "  You  will  find  this  useful  —  if  you  are  in 
earnest,"  said  he.  "  Good-by,  and  good  luck.  I'll 
hope  to  see  you  in  a  few  weeks." 

Before  she  had  recovered  herself  in  the  least,  she  was 
standing  there  alone,  the  paper  in  her  hand,  her  stupe 
fied  gaze  upon  the  door  through  which  he  had  disap 
peared.  All  his  movements  and  his  speech  had  been 
of  his  customary,  his  invariable,  deliberateness ;  but  she 
had  the  impression  of  whirling  and  rushing  haste. 
With  a  long  gasping  sigh  she  fell  to  trembling  all  over. 
She  sped  to  her  room,  got  its  door  safely  closed  just 
in  time.  Down  she  sank  upon  the  bed,  to  give  way  to 
an  attack  of  hysterics. 

We  are  constantly  finding  ourselves  putting  forth  the 
lovely  flowers  and  fruit  of  the  virtues  whereof  the  heroes 
and  heroines  of  romance  are  so  prolific.  Usually  noth 
ing  occurs  to  disillusion  us  about  ourselves.  But  now 
and  then  fate,  in  unusually  brutal  ironic  mood,  forces 
us  to  see  the  real  reason  why  we  did  this  or  that  virtu 
ous,  self-sacrificing  action,  or  blossomed  forth  in  this 
or  that  nobility  of  character.  Mildred  was  destined 
now  to  suffer  one  of  these  savage  blows  of  disillusion 
ment  about  self  that  thrust  us  down  from  the  exalted 
moral  heights  where  we  have  been  preening  into  hum 
ble  kinship  with  the  weak  and  frail  human  race.  She 
saw  why  she  had  refused  Stanley,  why  she  had  stopped 
"  borrowing,"  why  she  had  put  off  going  to  the  theat 
rical  managers,  why  she  had  delayed  moving  into  quar 
ters  within  her  diminished  and  rapidly  diminishing 

282 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


means.  She  had  been  counting  on  Donald  Keith.  She 
had  convinced  herself  that  he  loved  her  even  as  she  loved 
him.  He  would  fling  away  his  cold  reserve,  would  burst 
into  raptures  over  her  virtue  and  her  courage,  would 
ask  her  to  marry  him.  Or,  if  he  should  put  off  that, 
he  would  at  least  undertake  the  responsibility  of  getting 
her  started  in  her  career.  Well!  He  had  come;  he 
had  shown  that  Stanley  had  told  him  all  or  practically 
all;  and  he  had  gone,  without  asking  a  sympathetic 
question  or  making  an  encouraging  remark.  As  in 
different  as  he  seemed.  Burnt  out,  cold,  heartless. 
She  had  leaned  upon  him ;  he  had  slipped  away,  leaving 
her  to  fall  painfully,  and  ludicrously,  to  the  ground. 
She  had  been  boasting  to  herself  that  she  was  strong, 
that  she  would  of  her  own  strength  establish  herself  in 
independence.  She  had  not  dreamed  that  she  would  be 
called  upon  to  "  make  good."  She  raved  against  Keith, 
against  herself,  against  fate.  And  above  the  chaos  and 
the  wreck  within  her,  round  and  round,  hither  and  yon, 
flapped  and  shied  the  black  thought,  "  What  shall  I 
do?" 

When  she  sat  up  and  dried  her  eyes,  she  chanced  to 
see  the  paper  Keith  had  left;  with  wonder  at  her  hav 
ing  forgotten  it  and  with  a  throb  of  hope  she  opened 
and  began  to  read  his  small,  difficult  writing: 

A  career  means  self-denial.  Not  occasional,  intermit 
tent,  but  steady,  constant,  daily,  hourly  —  a  purpose  that 
never  relaxes. 

A  career  as  a  singer  means  not  only  the  routine,  the 
patient  tedious  work,  the  cutting  out  of  time-wasting  people 
and  time-wasting  pleasures  that  are  necessary  to  any  and 

283 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


all  careers.  It  means  in  addition  —  for  such  a  person  — 
sacrifices  far  beyond  a  character  so  undisciplined  and  so 
corrupted  by  conventional  life  as  is  yours.  The  basis  of  a 
singing  career  is  health  and  strength.  You  must  have 
great  physical  strength  to  be  able  to  sing  operas.  You 
must  have  perfect  health. 

Diet  and  exercise.  A  routine  life,  its  routine  rigidly 
adhered  to,  day  in  and  day  out,  month  after  month,  year 
after  year.  Small  and  uninteresting  and  monotonous  food, 
nothing  to  drink,  and,  of  course,  no  cigarettes.  Such  is 
the  secret  of  a  reliable  voice  for  you  who  have  a  "  delicate 
throat  " —  which  is  the  silly,  shallow,  and  misleading  way 
of  saying  a  delicate  digestion,  for  sore  throat  always 
means  indigestion,  never  means  anything  else.  To  sing, 
the  instrument,  the  absolutely  material  machine,  must  be 
in  perfect  order.  The  rest  is  easy. 

Some  singers  can  commit  indiscretions  of  diet  and  of 
lack  of  exercise.  But  not  you,  because  you  lack  this 
natural  strength.  Do  not  be  deceived  and  misled  by  their 
example. 

Exercise.  You  must  make  your  body  strong,  powerful. 
You  have  not  the  muscles  by  nature.  You  must  acquire 
them. 

The  following  routine  of  diet  and  exercise  made  one  of  the 
great  singers,  and  kept  her  great  for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
If  you  adopt  it,  without  variation,  you  can  make  a  career. 
If  you  do  not,  you  need  not  hope  for  anything  but  failure 
and  humiliation.  Within  my  knowledge  sixty-eight  young 
men  and  young  women  have  started  in  on  this  system.  Not 
one  had  the  character  to  persist  to  success.  This  may  sug 
gest  why,  except  two  who  are  at  the  very  top,  all  of  the 
great  singers  are  men  and  women  whom  nature  has  made 
powerful  of  body  and  of  digestion  —  so  powerful  that 
their  indiscretions  only  occasionally  make  them  unreliable. 

There  Mildred   stopped  and  flung  the  paper  aside. 
She  did  not  care  even  to  glance  at  the  exercises  pre- 
284 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


scribed  or  at  the  diet  and  the  routine  of  daily  work. 
How  dull  and  uninspired!  How  grossly  material! 
Stomach !  Chewing !  Exercising  machines !  Plodding 
dreary  miles  daily,  rain  or  shine!  What  could  such 
things  have  to  do  with  the  free  and  glorious  career  of 
an  inspired  singer?  Keith  was  laughing  at  her  as  he 
hastened  away,  abandoning  her  to  her  fate. 

She  examined  herself  in  the  glass  to  make  sure  that 
the  ravages  of  her  attack  of  rage  and  grief  and  despair 
could  be  effaced  within  a  few  hours,  then  she  wrote  a 
note  —  formal  yet  friendly  —  to  Stanley  Baird,  inform 
ing  him  that  she  would  receive  him  that  evening.  He 
came  while  Cyrilla  and  Mildred  were  having  their  after- 
dinner  coffee  and  cigarettes.  He  was  a  man  who  took 
great  pains  with  his  clothes,  and  got  them  where  pains 
was  not  in  vain.  That  evening  he  had  arrayed  himself 
with  unusual  care,  and  the  result  was  a  fine,  manly  figure 
of  the  well-bred  New-Yorker  type.  Certainly  Stanley 
had  ground  for  his  feeling  that  he  deserved  and  got  lik 
ing  for  himself.  The  three  sat  in  the  library  for  per 
haps  half  an  hour,  then  Mrs.  Brindley  rose  to  leave  the 
other  two  alone.  Mildred  urged  her  to  stay  —  Mildred 
who  had  been  impatient  of  her  presence  when  Stanley 
was  announced.  Urged  her  to  stay  in  such  a  tone  that 
Cyrilla  could  not  persist,  but  had  to  sit  down  again. 
As  the  three  talked  on  and  on,  Mildred  continued  to  pic 
ture  life  with  Stanley  —  continued  the  vivid  picturing 
she  had  begun  within  ten  minutes  of  Stanley's  entering, 
the  picturing  that  had  caused  her  to  insist  on  Cyrilla's 
remaining  as  chaperon.  A  young  girl  can  do  no  such 
picturing  as  Mildred  could  not  avoid  doing.  To  the 

285 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


young  girl  married  life,  its  tete-a-tetes,  its  intimacies, 
its  routine,  are  all  a  blank.  Any  attempt  she  makes  to 
fill  in  details  goes  far  astray.  But  Mildred,  with  Stan 
ley  there  before  her,  could  see  her  life  as  it  would  be. 

Toward  half -past  ten,  Stanley  said,  shame-faced  and 
pleading,  "  Mildred,  I  should  like  to  see  you  alone  for 
just  a  minute  before  I  go." 

Mildred  said  to  Cyrilla :  "  No,  don't  move.  We'll 
go  into  the  drawing-room." 

He  followed  her  there,  and  when  the  sound  of  Mrs. 
Brindley's  step  in  the  hall  had  died  away,  he  began : 
"  I  think  I  understand  you  a  little  now.  I  shan't  in 
sult  you  by  returning  or  destroying  that  note  or  the 
check.  I  accept  your  decision  —  unless  you  wish  to 
change  it."  He  looked  at  her  with  eager  appeal.  His 
heart  was  trembling,  was  sick  with  apprehension,  with 
the  sense  of  weakness,  of  danger  and  gloom  ahead. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  help  you,  at  least,  Mildred?"  he 
urged. 

Whence  the  courage  came  she  knew  not,  but  through 
her  choking  throat  she  forced  a  positive,  u  No." 

"  And,"  he  went  on,  "I  meant  what  I  said.  I  love 
you.  I'm  wretched  without  you.  I  want  you  to  marry 
me,  career  or  no  career." 

Her  fears  were  clamorous,  but  she  forced  herself  to 
say,  "  I  can't  change." 

"  I  hoped  —  a  little  —  that  you  sent  me  the  note  to 
day  because  you  —  You  didn't  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  want  us  to  be  friends. 
But  you  must  keep  away." 

He  bent  his  head.  "  Then  I'll  go  'way  off  somewhere. 
286 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


I  can't  bear  being  here  in  New  York  and  not  seeing 
you.  And  when  I've  been  away  a  year  or  so,  perhaps 
I'll  get  control  of  myself  again." 

Going  away !  —  to  try  to  forget !  —  no  doubt,  to 
succeed  in  forgetting!  Then  this  was  her  last  chance. 

"  Must  I  go,  Mildred?     Won't  you  relent?  " 

"  I  don't  love  you  —  and  I  never  can."  She  was 
deathly  white  and  trembling.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  be 
gin  a  retreat,  for  her  courage  had  quite  oozed  away. 
He  was  looking  at  her,  his  face  distorted  with  a  min 
gling  of  the  passion  of  desire  and  the  passion  of  jeal 
ousy.  She  shrank,  caught  at  the  back  of  a  chair  for 
support,  felt  suddenly  strong  and  defiant.  To  be  this 
man's  plaything,  to  submit  to  his  moods,  to  his  jeal 
ousies,  to  his  caprices  —  to  be  his  to  fumble  and  caress, 
his  to  have  the  fury  of  his  passion  wreak  itself  upon 
her  with  no  response  from  her  but  only  repulsion  and 
loathing  —  and  the  long  dreary  hours  and  days  and 
years  alone  with  him,  listening  to  his  commonplaces, 
often  so  tedious,  forced  to  try  to  amuse  him  and  to  keep 
him  in  a  good  humor  because  he  held  the  purse- 
strings  — 

"  Please  go,"  she  said. 

She  was  still  very  young,  still  had  years  and  years 
of  youth  unspent.  Surely  she  could  find  something 
better  than  this.  Surely  life  must  mean  something  more 
than  this.  At  least  it  was  worth  a  trial. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  gave  him  her  reluctant 
and  cold  fingers.  He  said  something,  what  she  did  not 
hear,  for  the  blood  was  roaring  in  her  ears  as  the  room 
swam  round.  He  was  gone,  and  the  next  thing  she 

287 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


definitely  knew  she  was  at  the  threshold  of  Cyrilla's 
room.  Cyrilla  gave  her  a  tenderly  sympathetic  glance. 
She  saw  herself  in  a  mirror  and  knew  why ;  her  face  was 
gray  and  drawn,  and  her  eyes  lay  dully  deep  within 
dark  circles. 

"  I  couldn't  do  it,"  she  said.  "  I  sent  for  him  to 
marry  him.  But  I  couldn't." 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  Marriage  without  love 
is  a  last  resort.  And  you're  a  long  way  from  last  re 
sorts." 

"  You  don't  think  I'm  crazy?  " 
"  I  think  you've  won  a  great  victory." 
"  Victory !  "     And  Mildred  laughed  dolefully.     "  If 
this  is  victory,  I  hope  I'll  never  know  defeat." 

Why  did  Mildred  refuse  Stanley  Baird  and  cut  her 
self  off  from  him,  even  after  her  hopes  of  Donald  Keith 
died  through  lack  of  food,  real  or  imaginary?  It 
would  be  gratifying  to  offer  this  as  a  case  of  pure  cour 
age  and  high  principle,  untainted  of  the  motives  which 
govern  ordinary  human  actions.  But  unluckily  this  is 
a  biography,  not  a  romance,  a  history  and  not  a  eulogy. 
And  Mildred  Gower  is  a  human  being,  even  as  you 
and  I,  not  a  galvanized  embodiment  of  superhuman 
virtues  such  as  you  and  I  are  pretending  to  be,  per 
haps  even  to  ourselves.  The  explanation  of  her  strange 
aberration,  which  will  be  doubted  or  secretly  condemned 
by  every  woman  of  the  sheltered  classes  who  loves  her 
dependence  and  seeks  to  disguise  it  as  something  sweet 
and  fine  and  "  womanly  " —  the  explanation  of  her  al 
most  insane  act  of  renunciation  of  all  that  a  lady  holds 
most  dear  is  simple  enough,  puzzling  though  she  found 

288 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


it.  Ignorance,  which  accounts  for  so  much  of  the 
squalid  failure  in  human  life,  accounts  also  for  much  if 
not  all  the  most  splendid  audacious  achievement.  Very 
often  —  very,  very  often  —  the  impossibilities  are 
achieved  by  those  who  in  their  ignorance  advance  not 
boldly  but  unconcernedly  where  a  wiser  man  or  woman 
would  shrink  and  retreat.  Fortunate  indeed  is  he  or 
she  who  in  a  crisis  is  by  chance  equipped  with  neither 
too  little  nor  too  much  knowledge  —  who  knows  enough 
to  enable  him  to  advance,  but  does  not  know  enough  to 
appreciate  how  perilous,  how  foolhardy,  how  harsh  and 
cruel,  advance  will  be.  Mildred  was  in  this  instance  thus 
fortunate  —  unfortunate,  she  was  presently  to  think  it. 
She  knew  enough  about  loveless  marriage  to  shrink 
from  it.  She  did  not  know  enough  about  what  poverty, 
moneylessness,  and  friendlessness  mean  in  the  actu 
ality  to  a  woman  bred  as  she  had  been.  She  imagined 
she  knew  —  and  sick  at  heart  her  notion  of  poverty 
made  her.  But  imagination  was  only  faintest  fore 
shadowing  of  actuality.  If  she  had  known,  she  would 
have  yielded  to  the  temptation  that  was  almost  too 
strong  for  her.  And  if  she  had  yielded  —  what  then  ? 
Not  such  a  repulsive  lot,  as  our  comfortable  classes  look 
at  it.  Plenty  to  eat  and  drink  and  to  wear,  servants 
and  equipages  and  fine  houses  and  fine  society,  the  envy 
of  her  gaping  kind  —  a  comfortable  life  for  the  body, 
a  comfortable  death  for  mind  and  heart,  slowly  and 
softly  suffocated  in  luxury.  Partly  through  knowledge 
that  strongly  affected  her  character,  which  was  on  the 
whole  aspiring  and  sensitive  beyond  the  average  to  the 
true  and  the  beautiful,  partly  through  ignorance  that 

289 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


veiled  the  future  from  her  none  too  valorous  and  hardy 
heart,  she  did  not  yield  to  the  temptation.  And  thus, 
instead  of  dying,  she  began  to  live,  for  what  is  life  but 
growth  in  experience,  in  strength  and  knowledge  and 
capability  ? 

A  baby  enters  the  world  screaming  with  pain.  The 
first  sensations  of  living  are  agonizing.  It  is  the  same 
with  the  birth  of  souls,  for  a  soul  is  not  really  born 
until  that  day  when  it  is  offered  choice  between  life  and 
death  and  chooses  life.  In  Mildred  Gower's  case  this 
birth  was  an  agony.  She  awoke  the  following  morn 
ing  with  a  dull  headache,  a  fainting  heart,  and  a  throat 
so  sore  that  she  felt  a  painful  catch  whenever  she  tried 
to  swallow.  She  used  the  spray ;  she  massaged  her 
throat  and  neck  vigorously.  In  vain;  it  was  folly  to 
think  of  going  where  she  might  have  to  risk  a  trial  of 
her  voice  that  day.  The  sun  was  brilliant  and  the  air 
sharp  without  being  humid  or  too  cold.  She  dressed, 
breakfasted,  went  out  for  a  walk.  The  throat  grew 
worse,  then  better.  She  returned  for  luncheon,  and 
afterward  began  to  think  of  packing,  not  that  she  had 
chosen  a  new  place,  but  because  she  wished  to  have  some 
sort  of  a  sense  of  action.  But  her  unhappiness  drove 
her  out  again  —  to  the  park  where  the  air  was  fine 
and  she  could  walk  in  comparative  solitude. 

"  What  a  silly  fool  I  am !  "  thought  she.  "  Why  did 
I  do  this  in  the  worst,  the  hardest  possible  way?  I 
should  have  held  on  to  Stanley  until  I  had  a  position. 
No,  I'm  such  a  poor  creature  that  I  could  never  have 
done  it  in  that  way.  I'd  simply  have  kept  on  bluffing, 
fooling  myself,  putting  off  and  putting  off.  I  had  to 

290 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


jump  into  the  water  with  nobody  near  to  help  me,  or 
I'd  never  have  begun  to  learn  to  swim.  I  haven't  be 
gun  yet.  I  may  never  learn  to  swim.  I  may  drown. 
Yes,  I  probably  shall  drown." 

She  wandered  aimlessly  on  —  around  the  upper  reser 
voir  where  the  strong  breeze  freshened  her  through  and 
through  and  made  her  feel  less  forlorn  in  spite  of  her 
chicken  heart.  She  crossed  the  bridge  at  the  lower  end 
and  came  down  toward  the  East  Drive.  A  taxicab 
rushed  by,  not  so  fast,  however,  that  she  failed  to  recog 
nize  Donald  Keith  and  Cyrilla  Brindley.  They  were 
talking  so  earnestly  —  Keith  was  talking,  for  a  won 
der,  and  Mrs.  Brindley  listening  —  that  they  did  not 
see  her.  She  went  straight  home.  But  as  she  was 
afoot,  the  journey  took  about  half  an  hour.  Cyrilla 
was  already  there,  in  a  negligee,  looking  as  if  she  had 
not  been  out  of  the  little  library  for  hours.  She  was 
writing  a  letter.  Mildred  strolled  in  and  seated  herself. 
Cyrilla  went  on  writing.  Mildred  watched  her  impa 
tiently.  She  wished  to  talk,  to  be  talked  to,  to  be  con 
soled  and  cheered,  to  hear  about  Donald  Keith.  Would 
that  letter  never  be  finished?  At  last  it  was,  and  Cy 
rilla  took  a  book  and  settled  herself  to  reading.  There 
was  a  vague  something  in  her  manner  —  a  change,  an 
attitude  toward  Mildred  —  that  disturbed  Mildred.  Or, 
was  that  notion  of  a  change  merely  the  offspring  of  her 
own  somber  mood?  Seeing  that  Mrs.  Brindley  would 
not  begin,  she  broke  the  silence  herself.  Said  she  awk 
wardly  : 

"  I've  decided  to  move.     In  fact,  I've  got  to  move." 
Cyrilla  laid  down  the  book  and  regarded  her  tran- 
291 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


quilly.  "  Of  course,"  said  she.  "  I've  already  begun 
to  arrange  for  someone  else." 

Mildred  choked,  and  the  tears  welled  into  her  eyes. 
She  had  not  been  mistaken ;  Cyrilla  had  changed  toward 
her.  Now  that  she  had  no  prospects  for  a  brilliant 
career,  now  that  her  money  was  gone,  Cyrilla  had  be 
gun  to  —  to  be  human.  No  doubt,  in  the  course  of 
that  drive,  Cyrilla  had  discovered  that  Keith  had  no 
interest  in  her  either.  Mildred  beat  down  her  emotion 
and  was  soon  able  to  say  in  a  voice  as  unconcerned  as 
Cyrilla's: 

"  I'll  find  a  place  to-morrow  or  next  day,  and  go  at 
once." 

"  I'll  be  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley,  "  but 
I  agree  with  you  that  you  can't  get  settled  any  too 
soon." 

"  You  don't  happen  to  know  of  any  cheap,  good 
place  ?  "  said  Mildred. 

"  If  it's  cheap,  I  don't  think  it's  likely  to  be  good  — 
in  New  York,"  replied  Cyrilla.  "  You'll  have  to  put 
up  with  inconveniences  —  and  worse.  I'd  offer  to  help 
you  find  a  place,  but  I  think  everything  self-reliant  one 
does  helps  one  to  learn.  Don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  assented  Mildred.  The  thing  was 
self -evidently  true ;  still  she  began  to  hate  Cyrilla. 
This  cold-hearted  New  York!  How  she  would  grind 
down  her  heel  when  she  got  it  on  the  neck  of  New  York ! 
Friendship,  love,  helpfulness  —  what  did  New  York  and 
New-Yorkers  know  of  these  things  ?  "  Or  Hanging 
Rock,  either,"  reflected  she.  What  a  cold  and  lonely 
world ! 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Have  you  been  to  see  about  a  position?  "  inquired 
Cyrilla. 

Mildred  was  thrown  into  confusion.  "  I  can't  go  — 
for  a  —  day  or  so,"  she  stammered.  "  The  changeable 
weather  has  rather  upset  my  throat.  Nothing  serious, 
but  I  want  to  be  at  my  best." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley.  Her  direct  gaze 
made  Mildred  uncomfortable.  She  went  on :  "  You're 
sure  it's  the  weather?  " 

"What  else  could  it  be?"  demanded  Mildred  with  a 
latent  resentment  whose  interesting  origin  she  did  not 
pause  to  inquire  into. 

"  Well,  salad,  or  sauces,  or  desserts,  or  cafe  au  lait  in 
the  morning,  or  candy,  or  tea,"  said  Cyrilla.  "  Or  it 
might  be  cigarettes,  or  all  those  things  —  and  thin 
stockings  and  low  shoes  —  mightn't  it?  " 

Never  before  had  she  known  Cyrilla  to  say  anything 
meddlesome  or  cattish.  Said  Mildred  with  a  faint  sneer, 
"  That  sounds  like  Mr.  Keith's  crankiness." 

"  It  is,"  replied  Cyrilla.  "  I  used  to  think  he  was  a 
crank  on  the  subject  of  singing  and  stomachs,  and  sing 
ing  and  ankles.  But  I've  been  convinced,  partly  by 
him,  mostly  by  what  I've  observed." 

Mildred  maintained  an  icy  silence. 

"  I  see  you  are  resenting  what  I  said,"  observed 
Cyrilla. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mildred.  "  No  doubt  you  meant 
well." 

"  You  will  please  remember  that  you  asked  me  a  ques 
tion." 

So  she  had.  But  the  discovery  that  she  was  clearly 
293 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


in  the  wrong,  that  she  had  invited  the  disguised  lecture, 
only  aggravated  her  sense  of  resentment  against  Mrs. 
Brindley.  She  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in  sort 
ing  and  packing  her  belongings  —  and  in  crying.  She 
came  upon  the  paper  Donald  Keith  had  left.  She  read 
it  through  carefully,  thoughtfully,  read  it  to  the  last 
direction  as  to  exercise  with  the  machine,  the  last  ar 
rangement  for  a  daily  routine  of  life,  the  last  sugges 
tion  as  to  diet. 

"  Fortunately  all  that  isn't  necessary,"  said  she  to 
herself,  when  she  had  finished.  "  If  it  were,  I  could 
never  make  a  career.  I'm  not  stupid  enough  to  be  able 
to  lead  that  kind  of  life.  Why,  I'd  not  care  to  make  a 
career,  at  that  price.  Slavery  —  plain  slavery." 

When  she  went  in  to  dinner,  she  saw  instantly  that 
Cyrilla  too  had  been  crying.  Cyrilla  did  not  look  old, 
anything  but  that,  indeed  was  not  old  and  would  not 
begin  to  be  for  many  a  year.  Still,  after  thirty-five 
or  forty  a  woman  cannot  indulge  a  good  cry  without 
its  leaving  serious  traces  that  will  show  hours  afterward. 
At  sight  of  the  evidences  of  Cyrilla's  grief  Mildred 
straightway  forgot  her  resentment.  There  must  have 
been  some  other  cause  for  Cyrilla's  peculiar  conduct. 
No  matter  what,  since  it  was  not  hardness  of  heart. 

It  was  a  sad,  even  a  gloomy  dinner.  But  the  two 
women  were  once  more  in  perfect  sympathy.  And 
afterward  Mildred  brought  the  Keith  paper  and  asked 
Cyrilla's  opinion.  Cyrilla  read  slowly  and  without  com 
ment.  At  last  she  said: 

"  He  got  this  from  his  mother,  Lucia  Rivi.  Have 
you  read  her  life  ?  " 

294 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  No.  I've  heard  almost  nothing  about  her,  except 
that  she  was  famous." 

"  She  was  more  than  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brindley. 
"  She  was  great,  a  great  personality.  She  was  an  al 
most  sickly  child  and  girl.  Her  first  attempts  on  the 
stage  were  humiliating  failures.  She  had  no  health,  no 
endurance,  nothing  but  a  small  voice  of  rare  quality." 
Cyrilla  held  up  the  paper.  "  This  tells  how  she  became 
one  of  the  surest  and  most  powerful  dramatic  sopranos 
that  ever  lived." 

"  She  must  have  been  a  dull  person  to  have  been  able 
to  lead  the  kind  of  life  that's  described  there,"  said  Mil 
dred. 

"  Only  two  kinds  of  persons  could  do  it,"  replied 
Cyrilla  — "  a  dull  person  —  a  plodder  —  and  a  genius. 
Middling  people  —  they're  the  kind  that  fill  the  world, 
they're  you  and  I,  my  dear  —  middling  people  have  to 
fuss  with  the  trifles  that  must  be  sacrificed  if  one  is  to 
do  anything  big.  You  call  those  trifles  your  freedom, 
but  they're  your  slavery.  And  by  sacrificing  them  the 
Lucia  Rivis  buy  their  freedom."  Cyrilla  looked  at  the 
paper  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  Ah,  I  wish  I  had  seen  this 
when  I  was  your  age.  Now,  it's  too  late." 

Said  Mildred :  "  Would  you  seriously  advise  me  to 
try  that?" 

Cyrilla  came  and  sat  beside  her  and  put  an  arm 
around  her.  "  Mildred,"  she  said,  "  I've  never  thrust 
advice  on  you.  I  only  dare  do  it  now  because  you  ask 
me,  and  because  I  love  you.  You  must  try  it.  It's 
your  one  chance.  If  you  do  not,  you  will  fail.  You 
don't  believe  me?  " 

295 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


In  a  tone  that  was  admission,  Mildred  said:  "I 
don't  know." 

"  Keith  has  given  you  there  the  secret  of  a  success 
ful  career.  You'll  never  read  it  in  any  book,  or  get  it 
from  any  teacher,  or  from  any  singer  or  manager  or 
doctor.  You  must  live  like  that,  you  must  do  those 
things  or  you  will  fail  even  in  musical  comedy.  You 
would  fail  even  as  an  actress,  if  you  tried  that,  when 
you  found  out  that  the  singing  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion." 

Mildred  was  impressed.  Perhaps  she  would  have 
been  more  impressed  had  she  not  seen  Keith  and  Mrs. 
Brindley  in  the  taxi,  Keith  talking  earnestly  and  Mrs. 
Brindley  listening  as  if  to  an  oracle.  Said  she: 
"  Perhaps  I'll  adopt  some  of  the  suggestions." 

Cyrilla  shook  her  head.  "  It's  a  route  to  success. 
You  must  go  the  whole  route  or  not  at  all." 

"  Don't  forget  that  there  have  been  other  singers 
besides  Rivi." 

"  Not  any  that  I  recall  who  weren't  naturally  power 
ful  in  every  way.  And  how  many  of  them  break  down  ? 
Mildred,  please  do  put  the  silly  nonsense  about  nerves 
and  temperament  and  inspiration  and  overwork  and 
weather  and  climate  —  put  all  that  out  of  your  head. 
Build  your  temple  of  a  career  as  high  and  graceful 
and  delicate  as  you  like,  but  build  it  on  the  coarse,  hard, 
solid  rock,  dear !  " 

Mildred  tried  to  laugh  lightly.  "How  Mr.  Keith 
does  hypnotize  people !  "  cried  she. 

Mrs.  Brindley's  cheeks  burned,  and  her  eyes  lowered 
in  acute  embarrassment.  "  He  has  a  way  of  being 

296 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


splendidly  and  sensibly  right,"  said  she.  "  And  the 
truth  is  wonderfully  convincing  —  once  one  sees  it." 
She  changed  the  sub j  ect,  and  it  did  not  come  up  —  or, 
perhaps,  come  out  again  —  before  they  went  to  bed. 
The  next  day  Mildred  began  the  depressing,  hopeless 
search  for  a  place  to  live  that  would  be  clean,  com 
fortable,  and  cheap.  Those  three  adjectives  describe 
the  ideal  lodging ;  but  it  will  be  noted  that  all  these  are 
relative.  In  fact,  none  of  the  three  means  exactly  the 
same  thing  to  any  two  members  of  the  human  family. 
Mildred's  notion  of  clean  —  like  her  notion  of  com 
fortable  —  on  account  of  her  bringing  up  implied  a 
large  element  of  luxury.  As  for  the  word  "  cheap,"  it 
really  meant  nothing  at  all  to  her.  From  one  stand 
point  everything  seemed  cheap ;  from  another,  every 
thing  seemed  dear ;  that  is,  too  dear  for  a  young  woman 
with  less  than  five  hundred  dollars  in  the  world  and  no 
substantial  prospect  of  getting  a  single  dollar  more  — 
unless  by  hook  and  crook,  both  of  which  means  she  was 
resolved  not  to  employ. 

Never  having  earned  so  much  as  a  single  penny,  the 
idea  of  anyone's  giving  her  anything  for  what  she 
might  be  able  to  do  was  disturbingly  vague  and  unreal. 
On  the  other  hand,  looking  about  her,  she  saw  scores 
of  men  and  women,  personally  known  to  her  to  be  dull 
of  conversation,  and  not  well  mannered  or  well  dressed 
or  well  anything,  who  were  making  livings  without  over 
whelming  difficulty.  Why  not  Mildred  Gower?  In 
this  view  the  outlook  was  not  discouraging.  "  I'll  no 
doubt  go  through  some  discomfort,  getting  myself 
placed.  But  somewhere  and  somehow  I  shall  be  placed 

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THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


—  and  how  I  shall  revenge  myself  on  Donald  Keith !  " 
His  fascination  for  her  had  not  been  destroyed  by  his 
humiliating  lack  of  belief  in  her,  nor  by  his  cold-hearted 
desertion  at  just  the  critical  moment.  But  his  conduct 
had  given  her  the  incentive  of  rage,  of  stung  vanity  — 
or  wounded  pride,  if  you  prefer.  She  would  get  him 
back ;  she  would  force  him  to  admit ;  she  would  win  him, 
if  she  could  —  and  that  ought  not  to  be  difficult  when 
she  should  be  successful.  Having  won  him,  then  — 
What  then  ?  Something  superb  in  the  way  of  revenge ; 
she  would  decide  what,  when  the  hour  of  triumph  came. 
Meanwhile  she  must  search  for  lodgings. 

In  her  journeyings  under  the  guidance  of  attractive 
advertisements  and  "  carefully  selected "  agents'  lists, 
she  found  herself  in  front  of  her  first  lodgings  in  New 
York  —  the  house  of  Mrs.  Belloc.  She  had  often 
thought  of  the  New  England  school-teacher,  arrived  by 
such  strange  paths  at  such  a  strange  position  in  New 
York.  She  had  started  to  call  on  her  many  times,  but 
each  time  had  been  turned  aside;  New  York  makes  it 
more  than  difficult  to  find  time  to  do  anything  that  does 
not  have  to  be  done  at  a  definite  time  and  for  a  definite 
reason.  She  was  worn  out  with  her  futile  trampings 
up  and  down  streets,  up  and  down  stairs.  Up  the  stone 
steps  she  went  and  rang  the  bell. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Belloc  was  in,  and  would  be  glad  to  see 
her,  if  Miss  Stevens  would  wait  in  the  drawing-room 
a  few  minutes.  She  had  not  seated  herself  when  down 
the  stairs  came  the  fresh,  pleasantly  countrified  voice 
of  Mrs.  Belloc,  inviting  her  to  ascend.  As  Mildred 
started  up,  she  saw  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  the  frank 

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THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  cheerful  face  of  the  lady  herself.  She  was  holding 
together  at  the  neck  a  thin  silk  wrapper  whose  lines 
strongly  suggested  that  it  was  the  only  garment  she 
had  on. 

"  Why  should  old  friends  stand  on  ceremony  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Belloc.  "  Come  right  up.  I've  been  taking  a 
bath.  My  masseuse  has  just  gone."  Mrs.  Belloc  en 
closed  her  in  a  delightfully  perfumed  embrace,  and  they 
kissed  with  enthusiasm. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mildred,  feeling  all  at 
once  a  thrilling  sense  of  at-homeness.  "  I  didn't  realize 
how  glad  I'd  be  till  I  saw  you." 

"  It'd  be  a  pretty  stiff  sort  that  wouldn't  feel  at  home 
with  me,"  observed  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  New  York  usually 
stiffens  people  up.  It's  had  the  opposite  effect  on  me. 
Though  I  must  say,  I  have  learned  to  stiffen  with  people 
I  don't  like  —  and  I'll  have  to  admit  that  I  like  fewer 
and  fewer.  People  don't  wear  well,  do  they?  What  is 
the  matter  with  them?  Why  can't  they  be  natural  and 
not  make  themselves  into  rubbishy,  old  scrap-bags  full 
of  fakes  and  pretenses?  You're  looking  at  my  hair." 

They  were  in  Mrs.  Belloc's  comfortable  sitting-room 
now,  and  she  was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  regarding 
Mildred  with  an  expression  of  delight  that  was  most 
flattering.  Said  Mildred : 

"  Your  hair  does  look  well.     It's  thicker  —  isn't  it?  " 

"Think  so?"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "It  ought  to  be, 
with  all  the  time  and  money  I've  spent  on  it.  My,  how 
New  York  does  set  a  woman  to  repairing  and  fixing  up. 
Nothing  artificial  goes  here.  It  mustn't  be  paint  and 
plumpers  and  pads,  but  the  real  teeth.  Why,  I've  had 

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THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


four  real  teeth  set  in  as  if  they  were  rooted  —  and  my 
hips  toned  down.  You  may  remember  what  heavy  legs 
I  had  —  piano-legs.  Look  at  'em  now."  Mrs.  Belloc 
drew  the  wrapper  to  her  knee  and  exposed  in  a  pale- 
blue  silk  stocking  a  thin  and  comely  calf. 

"  You  have  been  busy !  "  said  Mildred. 

"  That's  only  a  little  part.  I  started  to  tell  you  about 
the  hair.  It  was  getting  gray  —  not  in  a  nice,  pretty 
way,  all  over,  but  in  spots  and  streaks.  Nothing  else 
makes  a  woman  look  so  ragged  and  dingy  and  old  as 
spotted,  streaky  gray  hair.  So  I  had  the  hair-woman 
touch  it  up.  She  vows  it  won't  make  my  face  hard. 
That's  the  trouble  with  dyed  or  touched  hair,  you  know. 
But  this  is  a  new  process." 

"  It's  certainly  a  success,"  said  Mildred.  And  in  fact 
it  was,  and  thanks  to  it  and  the  other  improvements  Mrs. 
Belloc  was  an  attractive  and  even  a  pretty  woman,  years 
younger  than  when  Mildred  saw  her. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I've  improved,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc. 
"  Nothing  to  scream  about  —  but  worth  while.  That's 
what  we're  alive  for  —  to  improve  —  isn't  it  ?  I've  no 
patience  with  people  who  slide  back,  or  don't  get  on  — 
people  who  get  less  and  less  as  they  grow  older.  The 
trouble  with  them  is  they're  vain,  satisfied  with  them 
selves  as  they  are,  and  lazy.  Most  women  are  too  lazy 
to  live.  They'll  only  fix  up  to  catch  a  man." 

Mildred  had  grown  sober  and  thoughtful. 

"  To  catch  a  man,"  continued  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  And 
not  much  even  for  that.  I'll  warrant  you're  getting  on. 
Tell  me  about  it." 

"Tell    me    about    yourself,    first,"     said    Mildred. 
300 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Why  all  this  excitement  about  improving? "  And 
she  smiled  significantly. 

"  No,  you'll  have  to  guess  again,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc. 
"  Not  a  man.  You  remember,  I  used  to  be  crazy  about 
gay  life  in  New  York  —  going  out,  and  men,  theaters, 
and  lobster-palaces  —  everything  I  didn't  get  in  my 
home  town,  everything  the  city  means  to  the  jays. 
Well,  I've  gotten  over  all  that.  I'm  improving,  mind 
and  body,  just  to  keep  myself  interested  in  life,  to  keep 
myself  young  and  cheerful.  I'm  interested  in  myself, 
in  my  house  and  in  woman's  suffrage.  Not  that  the 
women  are  fit  to  vote.  They  aren't,  any  more  than  the 
men.  But  what  makes  people?  Why,  responsibility. 
That  old  scamp  I  married  —  he's  dead.  And  I've  got 
the  money,  and  everything's  very  comfortable  with  me. 
Just  think,  I  didn't  have  any  luck  till  I  was  an  old  maid 
far  gone.  I'm  not  telling  my  age.  All  my  life  it 
had  rained  bad  luck  —  pitchforks,  tines  down.  And 
why?" 

"  Yes,  why  ?  "  said  Mildred.  She  did  not  understand 
how  it  was,  but  Mrs.  Belloc  seemed  to  be  saying  the 
exact  things  she  needed  to  hear. 

"  I'll  tell  you  why.  Because  I  didn't  work.  Drudg 
ing  along  isn't  work  any  more  than  dawdling  along. 
Work  means  purpose,  means  head.  And  my  luck  be 
gan  just  as  anybody's  does  —  when  I  rose  up  and  got 
busy.  You  may  say  it  wasn't  very  creditable,  the  way 
I  began ;  but  it  was  the  best  I  could  do.  I  know  it  isn't 
good  morals,  but  I'm  willing  to  bet  that  many  a  man 
has  laid  the  foundations  of  a  bjg  fine  career  by  doing 
something  that  wasn't  at  all  nice  or  right.  He  had  to 

301 


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do  it,  to  '  get  through.'  If  he  hadn't  done  it,  he'd  never 
have  '  got  through.'  Anyhow,  whether  that's  so  or  not, 
everyone's  got  to  make  a  fight  to  break  into  the  part  of 
the  world  where  living's  really  worth  living.  But  I 
needn't  tell  you  that.  You're  doing  it." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  replied  Mildred.  "  I'm  ashamed  to 
say  so,  but  I'm  not.  I've  been  bluffing  —  and  wasting 
time." 

"  That's  bad,  that's  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  Espe 
cially,  as  you've  got  it  in  you  to  get  there.  What's 
been  the  trouble?  The  wrong  kind  of  associations?" 

"  Partly,"  said  Mildred. 

Mrs.  Belloc,  watching  her  interestedly,  suddenly 
lighted  up.  "  Why  not  come  back  here  to  live?  "  said 
she.  "  Now,  please  don't  refuse  till  I  explain.  You 
remember  what  kind  of  people  I  had  here  ?  " 

Mildred  smiled.     "  Rather  —  unconventional?  " 

"That's  polite.  Well,  I've  cleared  'em  out.  Not 
that  I  minded  their  unconventionality ;  I  liked  it.  It 
was  so  different  from  the  straight- jackets  and  the  hy 
pocrisy  I'd  been  living  among  and  hating.  But  I  soon 
found  out  that  —  well,  Miss  Stevens,  the  average  human 
being  ought  to  be  pretty  conventional  in  his  morals 
of  a  certain  kind.  If  he  —  or  she  —  isn't,  they  begin 
to  get  unconventional  in  every  way  —  about  paying 
their  bills,  for  instance,  and  about  drinking.  I  got  sick 
and  tired  of  those  people.  So,  I  put  'em  all  out  —  made 
a  sweep.  And  now  I've  become  quite  as  respectable  as 
I  care  to  be  —  or  as  is  necessary.  The  couples  in  the 
house  are  married,  and^  they're  nice  people  of  good  fam 
ilies.  It  was  Mrs.  Dyckman  —  she's  got  the  whole  sec- 

302 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ond  floor  front,  she  and  her  husband  and  the  daughter 
—  it  was  Mrs.  Dyckman  who  interested  me  in  the  suf 
frage  movement.  You  must  hear  her  speak.  And  the 
daughter  does  well  at  it,  too  —  and  keeps  a  fashionable 
millinery-shop  —  and  she's  only  twenty-four.  Then 
there's  Nora  Blond." 

"The  actress?" 

"  The  actress.  She's  the  quietest,  hardest-working 
person  here.  She's  got  the  whole  first  floor  front. 
Nobody  ever  comes  to  see  her,  except  on  Sunday  after 
noon.  She  leads  the  queerest  life." 

"  TeU  me  about  that,"  said  Mildred. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  it,"  confessed  Mrs.  Bel- 
loc.  "  She's  regular  as  a  clock  —  does  everything  on 
time,  and  at  the  same  time.  Two  meals  a  day  —  one 
of  them  a  dry  little  breakfast  she  gets  herself.  Walks, 
fencing,  athletics,  study." 

"What  slavery!" 

"  She's  the  happiest  person  I  ever  saw,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Belloc.  "  Why,  she's  got  her  work,  her  career.  You 
don't  look  at  it  right,  Miss  Stevens.  You  don't  look 
happy.  What's  the  matter?  Isn't  it  because  you 
haven't  been  working  right  —  because  you've  been  do 
ing  these  alleged  pleasant  things  that  leave  a  bad  taste 
in  your  mouth  and  weaken  you?  I'll  bet,  if  you  had 
been  working  hard,  you'd  not  be  unhappy  now.  Bet 
ter  come  here  to  live." 

"  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  about  myself?  " 

"  Go  right  ahead.  May  I  ask  questions,  where  I 
want  to  know  more?  I  do  hate  to  get  things  half 


way." 


303 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mildred  freely  gave  her  leave,  then  proceeded  to  tell 
her  whole  story,  omitting-  nothing  that  was  essential  to 
an  understanding.  In  conclusion  she  said :  "  I'd  like 
to  come.  You  see,  I've  very  little  money.  When  it's 
gone,  I'll  go,  unless  I  make  some  more." 

"  Yes,  you  must  come.  That  Mrs.  Brindley  seems 
to  be  a  nice  woman,  a  mighty  nice  woman.  But  her 
house,  and  the  people  that  come  there  —  they  aren't  the 
right  sort  for  a  girl  that's  making  a  start.  I  can  give 
you  a  room  on  the  top  floor  —  in  front.  The  young 
lady  next  to  you  is  a  clerk  in  an  architect's  office,  and 
a  fine  girl  she  is." 

"  How  much  does  she  pay  ?  "  said  Mildred. 

"  Your  room  won't  be  quite  as  nice  as  hers.  I  put 
you  at  the  top  because  you  can  sing  up  there,  part  of 
the  mornings  and  part  of  the  afternoons,  without  dis 
turbing  anybody.  I  don't  have  a  general  table  any 
more.  You  can  take  your  meals  in  your  room  or  at  the 
restaurant  in  the  apartment-house  next  door.  It's  good 
and  quite  reasonable." 

"  How  much  for  the  room  ? "  persisted  Mildred, 
laughing. 

"  Seven  dollars  a  week,  and  the  use  of  the  bath." 

Mildred  finally  wrung  from  her  that  the  right  price 
was  twelve  dollars  a  week,  and  insisted  on  paying  that 
— "  until  my  money  gets  low." 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc. 

"  You  mustn't  weaken  me,"  cried  Mildred.  "  You 
mustn't  encourage  me  to  be  a  coward  and  to  shirk. 
That's  why  I'm  coming  here." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "I've  got  the 
304, 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


New  England  streak  of  hardness  in  me,  though  I  be 
lieve  that  masseuse  has  almost  ironed  it  out  of  my  face. 
Do  I  look  like  a  New  England  schoolmarm?  " 

Mildred  could  truthfully  answer  that  there  wasn't  a 
trace  of  it. 

When  she  returned  to  Mrs.  Brindley's  —  already  she 
had  ceased  to  think  of  it  as  home  —  she  announced  her 
new  plans.  Mrs.  Brindley  said  nothing,  but  Mildred 
understood  the  quick  tightening  of  the  lines  round  her 
mouth  and  the  shifting  of  the  eyes.  She  hastened  to 
explain  that  Mrs.  Belloc  was  no  longer  the  sort  of 
woman  or  the  sort  of  landlady  she  had  been  a  few 
months  before.  Mrs.  Brindley  of  the  older  New  York, 
could  neither  understand  nor  believe  in  the  people  of 
the  new  and  real  New  'York  whom  it  molds  for  better 
or  for  worse  so  rapidly  —  and  even  remolds  again  and 
again.  But  Mildred  was  able  to  satisfy  her  that  the 
house  was  at  least  not  suspicious. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  where  you're  going,"  said  Mrs. 
Brindley.  "  It's  that  you  are  going.  I  can't  bear  giv 
ing  you  up.  I  had  hoped  that  our  lives  would  flow  on 
and  on  together."  She  was  with  difficulty  controlling 
her  emotions.  "  It's  these  separations  that  age  one, 
that  take  one's  life.  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  met  you." 

Mildred  was  moved,  herself.  Not  so  much  as  Mrs. 
Brindley  because  she  had  the  necessities  of  her  career 
gripping  her  and  claiming  the  strongest  feelings  there 
were  in  her.  Also,  she  was  much  the  younger,  not 
merely  in  years  but  in  experience.  And  separations 
have  no  real  poignancy  in  them  for  youth. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  love  me,"  said  Cyrilla,  "  but  love 
305 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


doesn't  mean  to  you  what  it  means  to  me.  I'm  in  that 
middle  period  of  life  where  everything  has  its  fullest 
meaning.  In  youth  we're  easily  consoled  and  distracted 
because  life  seems  so  full  of  possibilities,  and  we  can't 
believe  friendship  and  love  are  rare,  and  still  more  rarely 
worth  while.  In  old  age,  when  the  arteries  harden  and 
the  blood  flows  slow  and  cold,  we  become  indifferent. 
But  between  thirty-five  and  fifty-five  how  the  heart  can 
ache !  "  She  smiled,  with  trembling  lips.  "  And  how  it 
can  rejoice!"  she  cried  bravely.  "  I  must  not  forget 
to  mention  that.  Ah,  my  dear,  you  must  learn  to  live 
intensely.  If  I  had  had  your  chance !  " 

"  Ridiculous !  "  laughed  Mildred.  "  You  talk  like  an 
old  woman.  And  I  never  think  of  you  as  older  than 
myself." 

"  I  am  an  old  woman,"  said  Cyrilla.  And,  with  a 
tightening  at  the  heart  Mildred  saw>  deep  in  the  depths 
of  her  eyes,  the  look  of  old  age.  "  I've  found  that  I'm 
too  old  for  love  —  for  man-and-woman  love  —  and  that 
means  I'm  an  old  woman." 

Mildred  felt  that  there  was  only  a  thin  barrier  of 
reserve  between  her  and  some  sad  secret  of  this  strange, 
shy,  loving  woman's  —  a  barrier  so  thin  that  she  could 
almost  hear  the  stifled  moan  of  a  broken  heart.  But 
the  barrier  remained;  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
Cyrilla  Brindley  to  talk  frankly  about  herself. 

When  Mildred  came  out  of  her  room  the  next  morn 
ing,  Cyrilla  had  gone,  leaving  a  note: 


I  can't  bear  good-bys.     Besides,  we'll  see  each  other  very 
soon.     Forgive  me  for  shrinking,  but  really  I  can't. 

306 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Before  night  Mildred  was  settled  in  the  new  place  and 
the  new  room,  with  no  sense  of  strangeness.  She  was 
reproaching  herself  for  hardness,  for  not  caring  about 
Cyrilla,  the  best  and  truest  friend  she  had  ever  had. 
But  the  truth  lay  in  quite  a  different  direction.  The 
house,  the  surroundings,  where  she  had  lived  luxuri 
ously,  dreaming  her  foolish  and  fatuous  dreams,  was 
not  the  place  for  such  a  struggle  as  was  now  upon  her. 
And  for  that  struggle  she  preferred,  to  sensitive,  sober, 
refined,  impractical  Cyrilla  Brindley,  the  companionship 
and  the  sympathy,  the  practical  sympathy,  of  Agnes 
Belloc.  No  one  need  be  ashamed  or  nervous  before 
Agnes  Belloc  about  being  poor  or  unsuccessful  or  hav 
ing  to  resort  to  shabby  makeshifts  or  having  to  endure 
coarse  contacts.  Cyrilla  represented  refinement,  appre 
ciation  of  the  finished  work  —  luxurious  and  sterile 
appreciation  and  enjoyment.  Agnes  represented  the 
workshop  —  where  all  the  doers  of  all  that  is  done  live 
and  work.  Mildred  was  descending  from  the  heights 
where  live  those  who  have  graduated  from  the  lot  of  the 
human  race  and  have  lost  all  that  superficial  or  casual 
resemblance  to  that  race.  She  was  going  down  to  live 
with  the  race,  to  share  in  its  lot.  She  was  glad  Agnes 
Belloc  was  to  be  there. 

Generalizing  about  such  a  haphazard  conglomerate 
as  human  nature  is  highly  unsatisfactory,  but  it  may 
be  cautiously  ventured  that  in  New  England,  as  in  old 
England,  there  is  a  curiously  contradictory  way  of  deal 
ing  with  conventionality.  Nowhere  is  conventionality 
more  in  reverence;  yet  when  a  New-Englander,  man  or 
woman,  happens  to  elect  to  break  with  it,  .nowhere  is 

307 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  break  so  utter  and  so  defiant.  If  Agnes  Belloc, 
cut  loose  from  the  conventions  that  had  bound  her  from 
childhood  to  well  into  middle  life,  had  remained  at  home, 
no  doubt  she  would  have  spent  a  large  part  of  her  nights 
in  thinking  out  ways  of  employing  her  days  in  out 
raging  the  conventionalities  before  her  horrified  and  in 
furiated  neighbors.  But  of  what  use  in  New  York  to 
cuff  and  spit  upon  deities  revered  by  only  an  insignifi 
cant  class  —  and  only  officially  revered  by  that  class  ? 
Agnes  had  soon  seen  that  there  was  no  amusement  or 
interest  whatever  in  an  enterprise  which  in  her  New 
England  home  would  have  filled  her  life  to  the  brim  with 
excitement.  Also,  she  saw  that  she  was  well  into  that 
time  of  life  where  the  absence  of  reputation  in  a  woman 
endangers  her  comfort,  makes  her  liable  to  be  left  alone 
-r-not  despised  and  denounced,  but  simply  avoided  and 
ignored.  So  she  was  telling  Mildred  the  exact  truth. 
She  had  laid  down  the  arms  she  had  taken  up  against 
the  social  system,  and  had  come  in  —  and  was  fighting 
it  from  the  safer  and  wiser  inside.  She  still  insisted 
that  a  woman  had  the  same  rights  as  a  man ;  but  she  took 
care  to  make  it  clear  that  she  claimed  those  rights  only 
for  others,  that  she  neither  exercised  them  nor  cared  for 
them  for  herself.  And  to  make  her  propaganda  the 
more  effective,  she  was  not  only  circumspect  herself, 
but  was  exceedingly  careful  to  be  surrounded  by  cir 
cumspect  people.  No  one  could  cite  her  case  as  proof 
that  woman  would  expand  liberty  into  license.  In 
theory  there  was  nothing  lively  that  she  did  not  look 
upon  at  least  with  tolerance ;  in  practice,  more  and  more 
she  disliked  seeing  one  of  her  sex  do  anything  that  might 

308 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


cause  the  world  to-  say  "  woman  would  abuse  liberty  if 
she  had  it."  "  Sensible  people,"  she  now  said,  "  do  as 
they  like.  But  they  don't  give  fools  a  chance  to  titter 
and  chatter." 

Agnes  Belloc  was  typical  —  certainly  of  a  large  and 
growing  class  in  this  day  —  of  the  decay  of  ancient  tem 
ples  and  the  decline  of  the  old-fashioned  idealism  that 
made  men  fancy  they  lived  nobly  because  they  professed 
and  believed  nobly.  She  had  no  ethical  standards.  She 
simply  met  each  situation  as  it  arose  and  dealt  with  it 
as  common  sense  seemed  in  that  particular  instance  to 
dictate.  For  a  thousand  years  genius  has  been  striving 
with  the  human  race  to  induce  it  to  abandon  its  super 
stitions  and  hypocrisies  and  to  defy  common  sense,  so 
adaptable,  so  tolerant,  so  conducive  to  long  and  healthy 
and  happy  life.  Grossly  materialistic,  but  alluringly 
comfortable.  Whether  for  good  or  for  evil  or  for  both 
good  and  evil,  the  geniuses  seem  in  a  fair  way  at  last 
to  prevail  over  the  idealists,  religious  and  political. 
And  Mrs.  Belloc,  without  in  the  least  realizing  it,  was 
a  most  significant  sign  of  the  times. 

"  Your  throat  seems  to  be  better  to-day,"  said  she  to 
Mildred  at  breakfast.  "  Those  simple  house-remedies 
I  tried  on  you  last  night  seem  to  have  done  some  good. 
Nothing  like  heat  —  hot  water  —  and  no  eating.  The 
main  thing  was  doing  without  dinner  last  night." 

"  My  nerves  are  quieter,"  advanced  Mildred  as  the 
likelier  explanation  of  the  return  of  the  soul  of  music  to 
its  seat.  "  And  my  mind's  at  rest." 

"  Yes,  that's  good,"  said  plain  Agnes  Belloc.  "  But 
getting  the  stomach  straight  and  keeping  it  straight's 

309 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  main  thing.  My  old  grandmother  could  eat  any 
thing  and  do  anything.  I've  seen  her  put  in  a  glass  of 
milk  or  a  saucer  of  ice-cream  on  top  of  a  tomato-salad. 
The  way  she  kept  well  was,  whenever  she  began  to  feel 
the  least  bit  off,  she  stopped  eating.  Not  a  bite  would 
she  touch  till  she  felt  well  again." 

Mildred,  moved  by  an  impulse  stronger  than  her  in 
clination,  produced  the  Keith  paper.  "  I  wish  you'd 
read  this,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it.  You've 
got  so  much  common  sense." 

Agnes  read  it  through  to  the  end,  began  at  the  be 
ginning  and  read  it  through  again.  "  That  sounds 
good  to  me,"  said  she.  "  I  want  to  think  it  over.  If 
you  don't  mind  I'd  like  to  show  it  to  Miss  Blond.  She 
knows  a  lot  about  those  things.  I  suppose  you're  go 
ing  to  see  Mr.  Crossley  to-day?  —  that's  the  musical 
manager's  name,  isn't  it?  " 

"  I'm  going  at  eleven.     That  isn't  too  early,  is  it?  " 

"  If  I  were  you,  I'd  go  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed  for 
the  street.  And  if  you  don't  get  to  see  him,  wait  till 
you  do.  Don't  talk  to  under-staffers.  Always  go 
straight  for  the  head  man.  You've  got  something  that's 
worth  his  while.  How  did  he  get  to  be  head  man  ?  Be 
cause  he  knows  a  good  thing  the  minute  he  sees  it.  The 
under  fellows  are  usually  under  because  they  are  so 
taken  up  with  themselves  and  with  impressing  people 
how  grand  they  are  that  they  don't  see  anything  else. 
So,  when  you  talk  to  them,  you  wear  yourself  out  and 
waste  your  time." 

"  There's  only  one  thing  that  makes  me  nervous," 
said  Mildred.  "  Everyone  I've  ever  talked  with  about 

310 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


going  on  the  stage  —  everyone  who  has  talked  candidly 
—  has  said  — " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc,  as  Mildred  paused 
to  search  for  smooth-sounding  words  in  which  to  dress, 
without  disguising,  a  distinctly  ugly  idea.  "  I've  heard 
that,  too.  I  don't  know  whether  there's  anything  in  it 
or  not."  She  looked  admiringly  at  Mildred,  who  that 
morning  was  certainly  lovely  enough  to  tempt  any  man. 
"  If  there  is  anything  in  it,  why,  I  reckon  you'd  be  up 
against  it.  That's  the  worst  of  having  men  at  the  top 
in  any  trade  and  profession.  A  woman's  got  to  get 
her  chance  through  some  man,  and  if  he  don't  choose 
to  let  her  have  it,  she's  likely  to  fail." 

Mildred  showed  how  this  depressed  her. 

"  But  don't  you  fret  about  that  till  you  have  to," 
advised  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  I've  a  notion  that,  even  if  it's 
true,  it  may  not  apply  to  you.  Where  a  woman  offers 
for  a  place  that  she  can  fill  about  as  well  as  a  hundred 
other  women,  she's  at  the  man's  mercy ;  but  if  she  knows 
that  she's  far  and  away  the  best  for  the  place,  I  don't 
think  a  man's  going  to  stand  in  his  own  light.  Let  him 
see  that  he  can  make  money  through  you,  money  he 
won't  make  if  he  don't  get  you.  Then,  I  don't  think 
you'll  have  any  trouble." 

But  Mildred's  depression  did  not  decrease.  "  If  my 
voice  could  only  be  relied  on !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Isn't 
it  exasperating  that  I've  got  a  delicate  throat ! " 

"  It's  always  something,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  One 
thing's  about  as  bad  as  another,  and  anything  can  be 
overcome." 

"  No,  not  in  my  case,"  said  Mildred.     "  The  peculiar 
311 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


quality  of  my  voice  —  what  makes  it  unusual  —  is  due 
to  the  delicateness  of  my  throat." 

"  Maybe  so,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc. 

"  Of  course,  I  can  always  sing  —  after  a  fashion," 
continued  Mildred.  "  But  to  be  really  valuable  on  the 
stage  you've  got  to  be  able  always  to  sing  at  your  best. 
So  I'm  afraid  I'm  in  the  class  of  those  who'll  suit,  one 
about  as  well  as  another." 

"  You've  got  to  get  out  of  that  class,"  said  Mrs. 
Belloc.  "  The  men  in  that  class,  and  the  women,  have 
to  do  any  dirty  work  the  boss  sees  fit  to  give  'em  —  and 
not  much  pay,  either.  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  Miss 
Stevens.  If  you  can't  get  among  the  few  at  the  top 
in  the  singing  game,  you  must  look  round  for  some  game 
where  you  can  hope  to  be  among  the  few.  No  matter 
what  it  is.  By  using  your  brains  and  working  hard, 
there's  something  you  can  do  better  than  pretty  nearly 
anybody  else  can  or  will  do  it.  You  find  that." 

The  words  sank  in,  sank  deep.  Mildred,  sense  of  her 
surroundings  lost,  was  gazing  straight  ahead  with  an 
expression  that  gave  Mrs.  Belloc  hope  and  even  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  confidence.  There  was  a  distinct  ad 
vance  ;  for,  after  she  reflected  upon  all  that  Mildred  had 
told  her,  little  of  her  former  opinion  of  Mildred's 
chances  for  success  had  remained  but  a  hope  detained 
not  without  difficulty.  Mrs.  Belloc  knew  the  human 
race  unusually  well  for  a  woman  —  unusually  well  for 
a  human  being  of  whatever  sex  or  experience.  She  had 
discovered  how  rare  is  the  temperament,  the  combination 
of  intelligence  and  tenacity,  that  makes  for  success. 
She  had  learned  that  most  people,  judged  by  any  stand- 

312 


THE  PBICE  SHE  PAID 


ard,  were  almost  total  failures,  that  most  of  the  more 
or  less  successful  were  so  merely  because  the  world  had 
an  enormous  amount  of  important  work  to  be  done, 
even  though  half-way,  and  had  no  one  but  those  half- 
competents  to  do  it.  As  incompetence  in  a  man  would 
be  tolerated  where  it  would  not  be  in  a  woman,  ob 
viously  a  woman,  to  get  on,  must  have  the  real  tempera 
ment  of  success. 

She  now  knew  enough  about  Mildred  to  be  able  to 
"  place  "  her  in  the  "  lady  "  class  —  those  brought  up 
not  only  knowing  how  to  do  nothing  with  a  money 
value  (except  lawful  or  unlawful  man-trapping),  but 
also  trained  to  a  sensitiveness  and  refinement  and  false 
shame  about  work  that  made  it  exceedingly  difficult  if 
not  impossible  for  them  to  learn  usefulness.  She  knew 
all  Mildred's  handicaps,  both  those  the  girl  was  con 
scious  of  and  those  far  heavier  ones  which  she  fatu 
ously  regarded  as  advantages.  How  was  Mildred  ever 
to  learn  to  dismiss  and  disregard  herself  as  the  pretty 
woman  of  good  social  position,  an  object  of  admiration 
and  consideration  ?  Mildred,  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
was  regarding  herself  as  already  successful  —  success 
ful  at  the  highest  a  woman  can  achieve  or  ought  to 
aspire  to  achieve  —  was  regarding  her  career,  however 
she  might  talk  .or  might  fancy  she  believed,  as  a  mere 
livelihood,  a  side  issue.  She  would  be  perhaps  more 
than  a  little  ashamed  of  her  stage  connections,  should 
she  make  any,  until  she  should  be  at  the  very  top  — 
and  how  get  to  the  top  when  one  is  working  under  the 
handicap  of  shame?  Above  all,  how  was  this  in 
dulgently  and  shelteredly  reared  lady  to  become  a  work- 

313 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ing  woman,  living  a  routine  life,  toiling  away  day  in 
and  day  out,  with  no  let  up,  permitting  no  one  and 
nothing  to  break  her  routine?  "Really,"  thought 
Agnes  Belloc,  "  she  ought  to  have  married  that  Baird 
man  —  or  stayed  on  with  the  nasty  general.  I  wonder 
why  she  didn't!  That's  the  only  thing  that  gives  me 
hope.  There  must  be  something  in  her  —  something 
that  don't  appear  —  something  she  doesn't  know  about, 
herself.  What  is  it?  Maybe  it  was  only  vanity  and 
vacillation.  Again,  I  don't  know." 

The  difficulty  Mrs.  Belloc  labored  under  in  her  at 
tempt  to  explore  and  map  Mildred  Gower  was  a  diffi 
culty  we  all  labor  under  in  those  same  enterprises.  We 
cannot  convince  ourselves  —  in  spite  of  experience 
after  experience  —  that  a  human  character  is  never 
consistent  and  homogeneous,  is  always  conglomerate, 
that  there  are  no  two  traits,  however  naturally  exclusive, 
which  cannot  coexist  in  the  same  personality,  that  cir 
cumstance  is  the  dominating  factor  in  human  action 
and  brings  forward  as  dominant  characteristics  now 
one  trait  or  set  of  traits,  consistent  or  inconsistent,  and 
now  another.  The  Alexander  who  was  Aristotle's  model 
pupil  was  the  same  Alexander  as  the  drunken  debaucher. 
Indeed,  may  it  not  be  that  the  characters  which  play 
the  large  parts  in  the  comedy  of  life  are  naturally  those 
that  offer  to  the  shifting  winds  of  circumstances  the 
greatest  variety  of  strongly  developed  and  contradictory 
qualities?  For  example,  if  it  was  Mildred's  latent 
courage  rescued  her  from  Siddall,  was  it  not  her  strong 
tendency  to  vacillation  that  saved  her  from  a  loveless 
and  mercenary  marriage  to  Stanley  Baird?  Perhaps 

314. 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


the  deep  underlying  truth  is  that  all  unusual  people 
have  in  common  the  character  that  centers  a  powerful 
aversion  to  stagnation ;  thus,  now  by  their  strong  quali 
ties,  now  by  their  weaknesses,  they  are  swept  inevitably 
on  and  on  and  ever  on.  Good  to-day,  bad  to-morrow, 
good  again  the  day  after,  weak  in  this  instance,  strong 
in  that,  now  brave  and  now  cowardly,  soft  at  one  time, 
hard  at  another,  generous  and  the  reverse  by  turns,  they 
are  consistent  only  in  that  they  are  never  at  rest,  but 
incessantly  and  inevitably  go. 

Mildred  reluctantly  rose,  moved  toward  the  door  with 
lingering  step.  "  I  guess  I'd  better  make  a  start," 
said  she. 

"That's  the  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc  heartily.  But 
the  affectionate  glance  she  sent  after  the  girl  was  dubi 
ous  —  even  pitying. 


315 


IX 

Two  minutes'  walk  through  to  Broadway,  and  she 
was  at  her  destination.  There,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
way,  stood  the  Gayety  Theater,  with  the  offices  of  Mr. 
Clarence  Crossley  overlooking  the  intersection  of  the 
two  streets.  Crossley  was  intrenched  in  the  remot 
est  of  a  series  of  rooms,  each  tenanted  by  under-staffers 
of  diminishing  importance  as  you  drew  way  from  the 
great  man.  It  was  next  to  impossible  to  get  at  him  — 
a  cause  of  much  sneering  and  dissatisfaction  in  theat 
rical  circles.  Crossley,  they  said,  was  exclusive,  had 
the  swollen  head,  had  forgotten  that  only  a  few  years 
before  he  had  been  a  cheap  little  ticket-seller  grateful 
for  a  bow  from  any  actor  who  had  ever  had  his  name 
up.  Crossley  insisted  that  he  was  not  a  victim  of  folie 
du  grandeur,  that,  on  the  contrary,  he  had  become  less 
vain  as  he  had  risen,  where  he  could  see  how  trivial  a 
thing  rising  was  and  how  accidental.  Said  he: 

"  Why  do  I  shut  myself  in  ?  Because  I'm  what  I  am 
—  a  good  thing,  easy  fruit.  You  say  that  men  a  hun 
dred  times  bigger  than  I'll  ever  be  don't  shut  themselves 
up.  You  say  that  Mountain,  the  biggest  financier  in 
the  country,  sits  right  out  where  anybody  can  go  up  to 
him.  Yes,  but  who'd  dare  go  up  to  him?  It's  gen 
erally  known  that  he's  a  cannibal,  that  he  kills  his  own 
food  and  eats  it  warm  and  raw.  So  he  can  afford  to  sit 

816 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


in  the  open.  If  I  did  that,  all  my  time  and  all  my 
money  would  go  to  the  cheap-skates  with  hard-luck 
tales.  I  don't  hide  because  I'm  haughty,  but  because 
I'm  weak  and  soft." 

In  appearance  Mr.  Crossley  did  not  suggest  his  name. 
He  was  a  tallish,  powerful-looking  person  with  a 
smooth,  handsome,  audacious  face,  with  fine,  laughing, 
but  somehow  untrustworthy  eyes  —  at  least  untrust 
worthy  for  women,  though  women  had  never  profited  by 
the  warning.  He  dressed  in  excellent  taste,  almost  con 
spicuously,  and  the  gay  and  expensive  details  of  his 
toilet  suggested  a  man  given  over  to  liveliness.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  this  liveliness  was  potential  rather  than 
actual.  Mr.  Crossley  was  always  intending  to  resume 
the  giddy  ways  of  the  years  before  he  became  a  great 
man,  but  was  always  so  far  behind  in  the  important 
things  to  be  done  and  done  at  once  that  he  was  forced 
to  put  off.  However,  his  neckties  and  his  shirts  and  his 
flirtations,  untrustworthy  eyes  kept  him  a  reputation  for 
being  one  of  the  worst  cases  in  Broadway.  In  vain  did 
his  achievements  show  that  he  could  not  possibly  have 
time  or  strength  for  anything  but  work.  He  looked 
like  a  rounder;  he  was  in  a  business  that  gave  endless 
dazzling  opportunities  for  the  lively  life;  a  rounder  he 
was,  therefore. 

He  was  about  forty.  At  first  glance,  so  vivid  and 
energetic  was  he>  he  looked  like  thirty-five,  but  at  second 
glance  one  saw  the  lines,  the  underlying  melancholy  signs 
of  strain,  the  heavy  price  he  had  paid  for  phenomenal 
success  won  by  a  series  of  the  sort  of  risks  that  make  the 
hair  fall  as  autumn  leaves  on  a  windy  day  and  make 

317 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


such  hairs  as  stick  turn  rapidly  gray.  Thus,  there 
were  many  who  thought  Crassley  was  through  vanity 
shy  of  the  truth  by  five  or  six  years  when  he  said  forty. 

In  ordinary  circumstances  Mildred  would  never  have 
got  at  Crossley.  This  was  the  first  business  call  of  her 
life  where  she  had  come  as  an  unknown  and  unsupported 
suitor.  Her  reception  would  have  been  such  at  the 
hands  of  Crossley's  insolent  and  ill-mannered  under 
lings  that  she  would  have  fled  in  shame  and  confusion. 
It  is  even  well  within  the  possibilities  that  she  would 
have  given  up  all  idea  of  a  career,  would  have  sent  for 
Baird,  and  so  on.  And  not  one  of  those  who,  timid 
and  inexperienced,  have  suffered  rude  rebuff  at  their  first 
advance,  would  have  condemned  her.  But  it  so  chanced 
—  whether  by  good  fortune  or  by  ill  the  event  was  to 
tell  —  that  she  did  not  have  to  face  a  single  under 
ling.  The  hall  door  was  open.  She  entered.  It  hap 
pened  that  while  she  was  coming  up  in  the  elevator  a 
quarrel  between  a  motorman  and  a  driver  had  heated 
into  a  fight,  into  a  small  riot.  All  the  underlings  had 
rushed  out  on  a  balcony  that  commanded  a  superb  view 
of  the  battle.  The  connecting  doors  were  open;  Mil 
dred  advanced  from  room  to  room,  seeking  someone  who 
would  take  her  card  to  Mr.  Crossley.  When  she  at 
last  faced  a  closed  door  she  knocked. 

"  Come !  "  cried  a  pleasant  voice. 

And  in  she  went,  to  face  Crossley  himself  —  Crossley, 
the  "  weak  and  soft,"  caught  behind  his  last  entrench 
ment  with  no  chance  to  escape.  Had  Mildred  looked 
the  usual  sort  who  come  looking  for  jobs  in  musical 
comedy,  Mr.  Crossley  would  not  have  risen  —  not  be- 

318 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


cause  he  was  snobbish,  but  because,  being  a  sensitive, 
high-strung  person,  he  instinctively  adopted  the  manner 
that  would  put  the  person  before  him  at  ease.  He 
glanced  at  Mildred,  rose,  and  thrust  back  forthwith  the 
slangy,  offhand  personality  that  was  perhaps  the  most 
natural  —  or  was  it  merely  the  most  used?  —  of  his 
many  personalities.  It  was  Crossley  the  man  of  the 
world,  the  man  of  the  artistic  world,  who  delighted  Mil 
dred  with  a  courteous  bow  and  offer  of  a  chair,  as  he 
said: 

"  You  wished  to  see  me?  " 

"  If  you  are  Mr.  Crossley,"  said  Mildred. 

"  I  should  be  tempted  to  say  I  was,  if  I  wasn't," 
said  he,  and  his  manner  made  it  a  mere  pleasantry  to 
put  her  at  ease. 

66  There  was  no  one  in  the  outside  room,  so  I  walked 
on  and  on  until  your  door  stopped  me." 

"  You'll  never  know  how  lucky  you  were,"  said  he. 
"  They  tell  me  those  fellows  out  there  have  shocking 
manners." 

"  Have  you  time  to  see  me  now  ?  I've  come  to  apply 
for  a  position  in  musical  comedy." 

"  You  have  not  been  on  the  stage,  Miss  — " 

"  Gower.     Mildred  Gower.     I've  decided  to  use  my; 


"  I  know  you  have  not  been  on  the  stage." 
"  Except  as   an  amateur  —  and  not   even  that  for 
several  years.     But  I've  been  working  at  my  voice." 

Crossley  was  studying  her,  as  she  stood  talking  — 
she  had  refused  the  chair.  He  was  more  than  favor 
ably  impressed.  But  the  deciding  element  was  not 

319 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mildred's  excellent  figure  or  her  charm  of  manner  or 
her  sweet  and  lovely  face.  It  was  superstition.  Just 
at  that  time  Crossley  had  been  abruptly  deserted  by 
Estelle  Howard ;  instead  of  going  on  with  the  rehearsals 
of  "  The  Full  Moon,"  in  which  she  was  to  be  starred, 
she  had  rushed  away  to  Europe  with  a  violinist  with 
whom  she  had  fallen  in  love  at  the  first  rehearsal. 
Crossley  was  looking  about  for  someone  to  take  her 
place.  He  had  been  entrenched  in  those  offices  for 
nearly  five  years ;  in  all  that  time  not  a  single  soul  of  the 
desperate  crowds  that  dogged  him  had  broken  through 
his  guard.  Crossley  was  as  superstitious  as  was  every 
one  else  who  has  to  do  with  the  stage. 

"  What  kind  of  a  voice?  "  asked  he. 

"  Lyric  soprano." 

"  You  have  music  there.     What?  " 

"  «  Batti  Batti '  and  a  little  song  in  English  — «  The 
Rose  and  the  Bee.'  " 

Crossley  forgot  his  manners,  turned  his  back  squarely 
upon  her,  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  trousers 
pockets,  and  stared  out  through  the  window.  He  pres 
ently  wheeled  round.  She  would  not  have  thought  his 
eyes  could  be  so  keen.  Said  he :  "  You  were  studying 
for  grand  opera?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  do  you  drop  it  and  take  up  this  ?  " 

"  No  money,"  replied  she.  "  I've  got  to  make  my 
living  at  once." 

"  Well,  let's  see.     Come  with  me,  please." 

They  went  out  by  a  door  into  the  hall,  went  back  to 
the  rear  of  the  building,  in  at  an  iron  door,  down  a 

320 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


flight  of  steep  iron  skeleton  steps  dimly  lighted.  Mil 
dred  had  often  been  behind  the  scenes  in  her  amateur 
theatrical  days ;  but  even  if  she  had  not,  she  would  have 
known  where  she  was.  Crossley  called,  "  Moldini ! 
Moldini!" 

The  name  was  caught  up  by  other  voices  and  re 
peated  again  and  again,  more  and  more  remotely.  A 
moment,  and  a  small  dark  man  with  a  superabundance 
of  greasy  dark  hair  appeared.  "  Miss  Gower,"  said 
Crossley,  "  this  is  Signer  Moldini.  He  will  play  your 
accompaniments."  Then  to  the  little  Italian,  "  Piano 
on  the  stage?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

To  Mildred  with  a  smile,  "  Will  you  try?  " 

She  bent  her  head.  She  had  no  voice  —  not  for  song, 
not  for  speech,  not  even  for  a  monosyllable. 

Crossley  took  Moldini  aside  where  Mildred  could  not 
hear.  "  Mollie,"  said  he,  "  this  girl  crept  up  on  me, 
and  I've  got  to  give  her  a  trial.  As  you  see,  she's  a 
lady,  and  you  know  what  they  are." 

"  Punk,"  said  Moldini. 

Crossley  nodded.  "  She  seems  a  nice  sort,  so  I  want 
to  let  her  down  easy.  I'll  sit  back  in  the  house,  in  the 
dark.  Run  her  through  that  '  Batti  Batti '  thing  she's 
got  with  her.  If  she's  plainly  on  the  fritz,  I'll  light  a 
cigarette.  If  I  don't  light  up,  try  the  other  song  she 
has.  If  I  still  don't  light  up  make  her  go  through  that 
6  Ah,  were  you  here,  love,'  from  the  piece.  But  if 
I  light  up,  it  means  that  I'm  going  to  light  out,  and 
that  you're  to  get  rid  of  her  —  tell  her  we'll  let  her 
know  if  she'll  leave  her  address.  You  understand?  " 

321 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Perfectly." 

Far  from  being  thrilled  and  inspired,  her  surround 
ings  made  her  sick  at  heart  —  the  chill,  the  dampness, 
the  bare  walls,  the  dim,  dreary  lights,  the  coarsely- 
painted  flats  —  At  last  she  was  on  the  threshold  of  her 
chosen  profession.  What  a  profession  for  such  a  per 
son  as  she  had  always  been !  She  stood  beside  Moldini, 
seated  at  the  piano.  She  gazed  at  the  darkness,  some 
where  in  whose  depths  Crossley  was  hidden.  After 
several  false  starts  she  sang  the  "  Batti  Batti  "  through, 
sang  it  atrociously  —  not  like  a  poor  professional,  but 
like  a  pretentious  amateur,  a  reversion  to  a  manner  of 
singing  she  had  once  had,  but  had  long  since  got  rid  of. 
She  paused  at  the  end,  appalled  by  the  silence,  by  the 
awfulness  of  her  own  performance. 

From  the  darkness  a  slight  click.  If  she  had  known ! 
—  for,  it  was  Crossley's  match-safe. 

The  sound,  slight  yet  so  clear,  startled  her,  roused 
her.  She  called  out :  "  Mr.  Crossley,  won't  you  please 
be  patient  enough  to  let  me  try  that  again  ?  " 

A  brief  hesitation,  then :     "  Certainly." 

Once  more  she  began.  But  this  time  there  was  no 
hesitation.  From  first  to  last  she  did  it  as  Jennings 
had  coached  her,  did  it  with  all  the  beauty  and  energy 
of  her  really  lovely  voice.  As  she  ended,  Moldini  said 
in  a  quiet  but  intense  undertone :  "  Bravo !  Bravo ! 
Fresh  as  a  bird  on  a  bright  spring  morning."  And 
from  the  darkness  came :  "  Ah  —  that's  better,  Miss 
Gower.  That  was  professional  work.  Now  for  the 
other." 

Thus  encouraged  and  with  her  voice  well  warmed,  she 
322 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


could  not  but  make  a  success  of  the  song  that  was  nearer 
to  what  would  be  expected  of  her  in  musical  comedy. 
Crossley  called  out :  "  Now,  the  sight  singing,  Moldini. 
I  don't  expect  you  to  do  this  well,  Miss  Gower.  I  sim 
ply  wish  to  get  an  idea  of  how  you'd  do  a  piece  we 
have  in  rehearsal." 

"  You'll  have  no  trouble  with  this,"  said  Moldini,  as 
he  opened  the  comedy  song  upon  the  rack  with  a  con 
temptuous  whirl.  "  It's  the  easy  showy  stuff  that  suits 
the  tired  business  man  and  his  laced-in  wife.  Go  at  it 
and  yell." 

Mildred  glanced  through  it.  There  was  a  subtle 
something  in  the  atmosphere  now  that  put  her  at  her 
ease.  She  read  the  words  aloud,  laughing  at  their  silly 
sentimentality,  she  and  Moldini  and  Crossley  making 
jokes  about  it.  Soon  she  said:  "I'm  ready." 

She  sang  it  well.  She  asked  them  to  let  her  try  it 
again.  And  the  second  time,  with  the  words  in  her 
mind  and  the  simple  melody,  she  was  able  to  put  ex 
pression  into  it  and  to  indicate,  with  restraint,  the  ac 
tion.  Crossley  came  down  the  aisle. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Mollie?  "  he  said  to  Moldini. 

"  We  might  test  her  at  a  few  rehearsals." 

Crossley  meekly  accepted  the  salutary  check  on  his 
enthusiasm.  "  Do  you  wish  to  try,  Miss  Gower?  " 

Mildred  was  silent.  She  knew  now  the  sort  of  piece 
in  which  she  was  to  appear.  She  had  seen  a  few  of 
them,  those  cheap  and  vulgar  farces  with  their  thin 
music,  their  more  than  dubious-looking  people.  What 
a  come-down!  What  a  degradation!  It  was  as  bad 
in  its  way  as  being  the  wife  of  General  Siddall.  And 

323 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


she  was  to  do  this,  in  preference  to  marrying  Stanley 
Baird. 

"  You  will  be  paid,  of  course,  during  rehearsal ;  that 
is,  as  long  as  we  are  taking  your  time.  Fifty  dollars 
a  week  is  about  as  much  as  we  can  afford."  Crossley 
was  watching  her  shrewdly,  was  advancing  these  re 
marks  in  response  to  the  hesitation  he  saw  so  plainly. 
"  Of  course  it  isn't  grand  opera,"  he  went  on.  "  In 
fact,  it's  pretty  low  —  almost  as  low  as  the  public  taste. 
You  see,  we  aren't  subsidized  by  millionaires  who  want 
people  to  think  they're  artistic,  so  we  have  to  hustle  to 
separate  the  public  from  its  money.  But  if  you  make 
a  hit,  you  can  earn  enough  to  put  you  into  grand  opera 
in  fine  style." 

"  I  never  heard  of  anyone's  graduating  from  here 
into  grand  opera,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Because  our  stars  make  so  much  money  and  make 
it  so  easily.  It'll  be  your  own  fault  if  you  don't." 

"  Can't  I  come  to  just  one  rehearsal  —  to  see  whether 
I  can  —  can  do  it  ?  "  pleaded  Mildred. 

Crossley,  made  the  more  eager  and  the  more  supersti 
tious  by  this  unprecedented  reluctance,  shook  his  head. 
"  No.  You  must  agree  to  stay  as  long  as  we  want 
you,"  said  he.  "  We  can't  allow  ourselves  to  be  trifled 
with." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mildred  resignedly.  "  I  will  re 
hearse  as  long  as  you  want  me." 

"  And  will  stay  for  the  run  of  the  piece,  if  we  want 
that?  "  said  Crossley.  "  You  to  get  a  hundred  a  week 
if  you  are  put  in  the  cast.  More,  of  course,  if  you 
make  a  hit." 

324 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  mean  I'm.  to  sign  a  contract  ?  "  cried  Mildred 
in  dismay. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Crossley.  A  truly  amazing  per 
formance.  Moldini  was  not  astonished,  however,  for  he 
had  heard  the  songs,  and  he  knew  Crossley 's  difficulties 
through  Estelle  Howard's  flight.  Also,  he  knew  Cross- 
ley  —  never  so  "  weak  and  soft  "  that  he  trifled  with  un 
likely  candidates  for  his  productions.  Crossley  had  got 
up  because  he  knew  what  to  do  and  when  to  do  it. 

Mildred  acquiesced.  Before  she  was  free  to  go  into 
the  street  again,  she  had  signed  a  paper  that  bound  her 
to  rehearse  for  three  weeks  at  fifty  dollars  a  week  and 
to  stay  on  at  a  hundred  dollars  a  week  for  forty  weeks 
or  the  run  of  "  The  Full  Moon,"  if  Crossley  so  desired; 
if  he  did  not,  she  was  free  at  the  end  of  the  rehearsals. 
A  shrewdly  one-sided  contract.  But  Crossley  told  him 
self  he  would  correct  it,  if  she  should  by  some  remote 
chance  be  good  enough  for  the  part  and  should  make 
a  hit  in  it.  This  was  no  mere  salve  to  conscience,  by 
the  way.  Crossley  would  not  be  foolish  enough  to  give 
a  successful  star  just  cause  for  disliking  and  distrusting 
him  and  at  the  earliest  opportunity  leaving  him  to  make 
money  for  some  rival  manager. 

Mrs.  Belloc  had  not  gone  out,  had  been  waiting  in  a 
fever  of  anxiety.  When  Mildred  came  into  her  sitting- 
room  with  a  gloomy  face  and  dropped  to  a  chair  as  if 
her  last  hope  had  abandoned  her,  it  was  all  Agnes  Belloc 
could  do  to  restrain  her  tears.  Said  she : 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  my  dear.  You  couldn't  expect 
anything  to  come  of  your  first  attempt." 

"  That  isn't  it,"  said  Mildred.  "  I  think  I'll  give  it 
325 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


up  —  do  something  else.  Grand  opera's  bad  enough. 
There  were  a  lot  of  things  about  it  that  I  was  fighting 
my  distaste  for." 

"  I  know,"  said  Agnes.  "  And  you'd  better  fight 
them  hard.  They're  unworthy  of  you." 

"  But  —  musical  comedy !     It's  —  frightful !  " 

"  It's  an  honest  way  of  making  a  living,  and  that's 
more  than  can  be  said  of  —  of  some  things.  I  suppose 
you're  afraid  you'll  have  to  wear  tights  —  or  some  non 
sense  like  that." 

"  No,  no.  It's  doing  it  at  all.  Such  rotten  music 
—  and  what  a  loathsome  mess !  " 

Mrs.  Belloc's  eyes  flashed.  "  I'm  losing  all  pa 
tience  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  know  you've  been  brought  up 
like  a  fool  and  always  surrounded  by  fools.  I  suppose 
you'd  rather  sell  yourself  to  some  man.  Do  you  know 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  at  bottom?  Why,  you're 
lazy  and  you're  a  coward.  Too  lazy  to  work.  And 
afraid  of  what  a  lot  of  cheap  women'll  say  —  women 
earning  their  board  and  clothes  in  about  the  lowest  way 
such  a  thing  can  be  done.  Haven't  you  got  any  self- 
respect  ?  " 

Mildred  rose.  "  Mrs.  Belloc,"  she  said  angrily,  "  I 
can't  permit  even  you  to  say  such  things  to  me." 

"  The  shoe  seems  to  fit,"  retorted  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  I 
never  yet  saw  a  lady,  a  real,  silk-and-diamonds,  sit-in- 
the-parlor  lady,  who  had  any  self-respect.  If  I  had 
my  way  they  wouldn't  get  a  mouthful  to  eat  till  they 
had  earned  it.  That'd  be  a  sure  cure  for  the  lady  dis 
ease.  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Miss  Stevens !  And  you're 
ashamed  of  yourself." 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Mildred,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
mood. 

"  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  rest  till  lunch-time. 
Then  start  out  after  lunch  and  hunt  a  job.  I'll  go 
with  you." 

"  But  I've  got  a  job,"  said  Mildred.  "  That's  what's 
the  matter." 

Agnes  Belloc's  jaw  dropped  and  her  rather  heavy 
eyebrows  shot  up  toward  the  low  sweeping  line  of  her 
auburn  hair.  She  made  such  a  ludicrous  face  that  Mil 
dred  laughed  outright.  Said  she: 

"  It's  quite  time.  Fifty  a  week,  for  three  weeks  of 
rehearsal.  No  doubt  /  can  go  on  if  I  like.  Nothing 
could  be  easier." 

"Crossley?" 

"  Yes.  He  was  very  nice  —  heard  me  sing  three 
pieces  —  and  it  was  all  settled.  I'm  to  begin  to-mor 
row." 

The  color  rose  in  Agnes  Belloc's  face  until  she  looked 
apoplectic.  She  abruptly  retreated  to  her  bedroom. 
After  a  few  minutes  she  came  back,  her  normal  com 
plexion  restored.  "  I  couldn't  trust  myself  to  speak," 
said  she.  "  That  was  the  worst  case  of  ingratitude 
I  ever  met  up  with.  You,  getting  a  place  at  fifty 
dollars  a  week  —  and  on  your  first  trial  —  and 
you  come  in  looking  as  if  you'd  lost  your  money  and 
your  reputation.  What  kind  of  a  girl  are  you,  any 
way?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mildred.     "  I  wish  I  did." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  you  got  it  so  easy.  Now  you'll 
have  a  false  notion  from  the  start.  It's  always  better 

327 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


to  have  a  hard  time  getting  things.     Then  you  appre 
ciate  them,  and  have  learned  how  to  hold  on." 

"  No  trouble  about  holding  on  to  this,"  said  Mildred 
carelessly. 

"  Please  don't  talk  that  way,  child,"  pleaded  Agnes, 
almost  tearful.  "  It's  frightful  to  me,  who've  had  ex 
perience,  to  hear  you  invite  a  fall-down." 

Mildred  disdainfully  fluttered  the  typewritten  copy  of 
the  musical  comedy.  "  This  is  child's  play,"  said  she. 
"  The  lines  are  beneath  contempt.  As  for  the  songs, 
you  never  heard  such  slop." 

"  The  stars  in  those  pieces  get  four  and  five  hundred, 
and  more,  a  week,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  Believe  me, 
those  managers  don't  pay  out  any  such  sums  for  child's 
play.  You  look  out.  You're  going  at  this  wrong." 

"  I  shan't  care  if  I  do  fail,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Do  you  mean  that?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Belloc. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Mildred.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know 
what  I  mean." 

"  I  guess  you're  just  talking,"  said  Mrs.  Belloc  after 
a  reflective  silence.  "  I  guess  a  girl  who  goes  and  gets 
a  good  job,  first  crack  out  of  the  box,  must  have  a 
streak  of  shrewdness." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mildred  doubtfully. 

"  I  guess  you'll  work  hard,  all  right.  After  you 
went  out  this  morning,  I  took  that  paper  down  to  Miss 
Blond.  She's  crazy  about  it.  She  wants  to  make  a 
copy  of  it.  I  told  her  I'd  ask  you." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mildred. 

"  She  says  she'll  return  it  the  same  day." 

"  Tell  her  she  can  keep  it  as  long  as  she  likes." 
328 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mrs.  Belloc  eyed  her  gravely,  started  to  speak, 
checked  herself.  Instead,  she  said,  "  No,  I  shan't  do 
that.  I'll  have  it  back  in  your  room  by  this  evening. 
You  might  change  your  mind,  and  want  to  use  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mildred,  pointedly  uninterested  and 
ignoring  Mrs.  Belloc's  delicate  but  distinct  emphasis 
upon  "  might." 

Mrs.  Belloc  kept  a  suspicious  eye  upon  her  —  an  eye 
that  was  not  easily  deceived.  The  more  she  thought 
about  Mildred's  state  of  depression  and  disdain  the  more 
tolerant  she  became.  That  mood  was  the  natural  and 
necessary  result  of  the  girl's  bringing  up  and  mode  of 
life.  The  important  thing  —  and  the  wonderful  thing 

—  was  her  being  able  to  overcome  it.     After  a  week  of 
rehearsal  she  said :     "  I'm  making  the  best  of  it.     But 
I  don't  like  it,  and  never  shall." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Belloc.  "  You're 
going  to  the  top.  I'd  hate  to  see  you  contented  at  the 
bottom.  Aren't  you  learning  a  good  deal  that'll  be 
useful  later  on  ?  " 

"  That's  why  I'm  reconciled  to  it,"  said  she.  "  The 
stage  director,  Mr.  Ransdell,  is  teaching  me  everything 

—  even  how  to  sing.     He  knows  his  business." 
Ransdell  not  only  knew,  but  also  took  endless  pains 

with  her.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  dark  man,  strikingly 
handsome  in  the  distinguished  way.  So  distinguished 
looking  was  he  that  to  meet  him  was  to  wonder  why  he 
had  not  made  a  great  name  for  himself.  An  extraordi 
nary  mind  he  certainly  had,  and  an  insight  into  the 
reasons  for  things  that  is  given  only  to  genius.  He 
had  failed  as  a  composer,  failed  as  a  playwright,  failed 

329 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


as  a  singer,  failed  as  an  actor.  He  had  been  forced 
to  take  up  the  profession  of  putting  on  dramatic  and 
musical  plays,  a  profession  that  required  vast  knowl 
edge  and  high  talents  and  paid  for  them  in  niggardly 
fashion  both  in  money  and  in  fame.  Crossley  owed  to 
him  more  than  to  any  other  single  element  the  series 
of  successes  that  had  made  him  rich;  yet  the  ten  thou 
sand  a  year  Crossley  paid  him  was  regarded  as  evi 
dence  of  Crossley's  lavish  generosity  and  was  so.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  to  say  why  a  man  so  splendidly 
endowed  by  nature  and  so  tireless  in  improving  himself 
was  thus  unsuccessful.  Probably  he  lacked  judgment; 
indeed,  that  lack  must  have  been  the  cause.  He  could 
judge  for  Crossley;  but  not  for  himself,  not  when  he 
had  the  feeling  of  ultimate  responsibility. 

Mildred  had  anticipated  the  most  repulsive  associa 
tions —  men  and  women  of  low  origin  and  of  vulgar 
tastes  and  of  vulgarly  loose  lives.  She  found  herself 
surrounded  by  simple,  pleasant  people,  undoubtedly  er 
ratic  for  the  most  part  in  all  their  habits,  but  without  vi- 
ciousness.  And  they  were  hard  workers,  all.  Ransdell 
—  for  Crossley  —  tolerated  no  nonsense.  His  people 
could  live  as  they  pleased,  away  from  the  theater,  but 
there  they  must  be  prompt  and  fit.  The  discipline  was 
as  severe  as  that  of  a  monastery.  She  saw  many  signs 
that  all  sorts  of  things  of  the  sort  with  which  she  wished 
to  have  no  contact  were  going  on  about  her ;  but  as  she 
held  slightly  —  but  not  at  all  haughtily  —  aloof,  she 
would  have  had  to  go  out  of  her  way  to  see  enough  to 
scandalize  her.  She  soon  suspected  that  she  was  being 
treated  with  extraordinary  consideration.  This  was  by 

330 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Crossley's  orders.  But  the  carrying  out  of  their  spirit 
as  well  as  their  letter  was  due  to  Ransdell.  Before  the 
end  of  that  first  week  she  knew  that  there  was  the  per 
sonal  element  behind  his  admiration  for  her  voice  and 
her  talent  for  acting,  behind  his  concentrating  most  of 
his  attention  upon  her  part.  He  looked  his  love  boldly 
whenever  they  were  alone;  he  was  always  trying  to 
touch  her  —  never  in  a  way  that  she  could  have  resented, 
or  felt  like  resenting.  He  was  not  unattractive  to  her, 
and  she  was  eager  to  learn  all  he  had  to  teach,  and  saw 
no  harm  in  helping  herself  by  letting  him  love. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  second  week,  when  they  were 
alone  in  her  dressing-room,  he  —  with  the  ingenious 
lack  of  abruptness  of  the  experienced  man  at  the  game 
—  took  her  hand,  and  before  she  was  ready,  kissed  her. 
He  did  not  accompany  these  advances  with  an  outburst 
of  passionate  words  or  with  any  fiery  lighting  up  of  the 
eyes,  but  calmly,  smilingly,  as  if  it  were  what  she  was 
expecting  him  to  do,  what  he  had  a  right  to  do. 

She  did  not  know  quite  how  to  meet  this  novel  attack. 
She  drew  her  hand  away,  went  on  talking  about  the 
part  —  the  changes  he  had  suggested  in  her  entrance, 
as  she  sang  her  best  solo.  He  discussed  this  with  her 
until  they  rose  to  leave  the  theater.  He  looked  smil 
ingly  down  on  her,  and  said  with  the  flattering  air  of 
the  satisfied  connoisseur: 

"  Yes,  you  are  charming,  Mildred.  I  can  make  a 
great  artist  and  a  great  success  out  of  you.  We  need 
each  other." 

"  I  certainly  need  you,"  said  she  gratefully.  "  How 
much  you've  done  for  me." 

331 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Only  the  beginning,"  replied  he.  "  Ah,  I  have 
such  plans  for  you  —  such  plans.  Crossley  doesn't 
realize  how  far  you  can  be  made  to  go  —  with  the  right 
training.  Without  it — "  He  shook  his  head  laugh 
ingly.  "  But  you  shall  have  it,  my  dear."  And  he 
laid  his  hands  lightly  and  caressingly  upon  her  shoul 
ders. 

The  gesture  was  apparently  a  friendly  familiarity. 
To  resent  it,  even  to  draw  away,  would  put  her  in  the 
attitude  of  the  woman  absurdly  exercised  about  the 
desirability  and  sacredness  of  her  own  charms. 

Still  smiling,  in  that  friendly,  assured  way,  he  went 
on :  "  You've  been  very  cold  and  reserved  with  me,  my 
dear.  Very  unappreciative." 

Mildred,  red  and  trembling,  hung  her  head  in  con 
fusion. 

"  I've  been  at  the  business  ten  years,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  you're  the  first  woman  I've  been  more  than  casu 
ally  interested  in.  The  pretty  ones  were  bores.  The 
homely  ones  —  I  can't  interest  myself  in  a  homely 
woman,  no  matter  how  much  talent  she  has.  A  woman 
must  first  of  all  satisfy  the  eye.  And  you — "  He 
seated  himself  and  drew  her  toward  him.  She,  cold  all 
over  and  confused  in  mind  and  almost  stupefied,  resisted 
with  all  her  strength;  but  her  strength  seemed  to  be 
oozing  away.  She  said: 

"  You  must  not  do  this.  You  must  not  do  this.  I'm 
horribly  disappointed  in  you." 

He  drew  her  to  his  lap  and  held  her  there  without 
any  apparent  tax  upon  his  strength.  He  kissed  her, 
laughingly  pushing  away  the  arms  with  which  she  tried 

332 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


to  shield  her  face.  Suddenly  she  found  strength  to 
wrench  herself  free  and  stood  at  a  distance  from  him. 
She  was  panting  a  little,  was  pale,  was  looking  at  him 
with  cold  anger. 

"  You  will  please  leave  this  room,"  said  she. 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  crossed  his  legs  comfortably,  and 
looked  at  her  with  laughing  eyes.  "  Don't  do  that,"  he 
said  genially.  "  Surely  my  lessons  in  acting  haven't 
been  in  vain.  That's  too  obviously  a  pose." 

She  went  to  the  mirror,  arranged  her  hat,  and  moved 
toward  the  door.  He  rose  and  barred  the  way. 

"  You  are  as  sensible  as  you  are  sweet  and  lovely," 
said  he.  "  Why  should  you  insist  on  our  being  bad 
friends  ?  " 

"  If  you  don't  stand  aside,  I'll  call  out  to  the  watch 
man." 

"  I'd  never  have  thought  you  were  dishonest.  In 
fact,  I  don't  believe  it  yet.  You  don't  look  like  one  of 
those  ladies  who  wish  to  take  everything  and  give 
nothing."  His  tone  and  manner  were  most  attrac 
tive.  Besides,  she  could  not  forget  all  he  had 
done  for  her  —  and  all  he  could  do  for  her.  Said 
she: 

"  Mr.  Ransdell?  if  I've  done  anything  to  cause  you  to 
misunderstand,  it  was  unconscious.  And  I'm  sorry. 
But  I  — " 

"  Be  honest,"  interrupted  he.  "  Haven't  I  made  it 
plain  that  I  was  fascinated  by  you  ?  " 

She  could  not  deny  it. 

"  Haven't  I  been  showing  you  that  I  was  willing  to 
do  everything  I  could  for  you?  " 

333 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  thought  you  were  concerned  only  about  the  suc 
cess  of  the  piece." 

"  The  piece  be  jiggered,"  said  he.  "  You  don't  im 
agine  you  are  necessary  to  its  success,  do  you?  You, 
a  raw,  untrained  girl.  Don't  your  good  sense  tell  you 
I  could  find  a  dozen  who  would  do,  let  us  say,  almost 
as  well?" 

"  I  understand  that,"  murmured  she. 

"  Perhaps  you  do,  but  I  doubt  it,"  rejoined  he. 
"  Vanity's  a  fast  growing  weed.  However,  I  rather  ex 
pected  that  you  would  remain  sane  and  reasonably 
humble  until  you'd  had  a  real  success.  But  it  seems 
not.  Now  tell  me?  why  should  I  give  my  time  and  my 
talent  to  training  you  —  to  putting  you  in  the  way  of 
quick  and  big  success  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  What  did  you  count  on  giving  me  in  return  ?  Your 
thanks?" 

She  colored,  hung  her  head. 

"  Wasn't  I  doing  for  you  something  worth  while  ? 
And  what  had  you  to  give  in  return  ?  "  He  laughed 
with  gentle  mockery.  "  Really,  you  should  have  been 
grateful  that  I  was  willing  to  do  so  much  for  so  little, 
for  what  I  wanted  ought  —  if  you  are  a  sensible  woman 
—  to  seem  to  you  a  trifle  in  comparison  with  what  I 
was  doing  for  you.  It  was  my  part,  not  yours,  to  think 
the  complimentary  things  about  you.  How  shallow  and 
vain  you  women  are!  Can't  you  see  that  the  value  of 
your  charms  is  not  in  them,  but  in  the  imagination  of 
some  man?  " 

"  I  can't  answer  you,"  said  she.  "  You've  put  it  all 
334 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


wrong.     You  oughtn't  to  ask  payment  for  a  favor  be 
yond  price." 

"  No,  I  oughtn't  to  have  to  ask,"  corrected  he,  in  the 
same  pleasantly  ironic  way.  "  You  ought  to  have  been 
more  than  glad  to  give  freely.  But,  curiously,  while 
we've  been  talking,  I've  changed  my  mind  about  those 
precious  jewels  of  yours.  We'll  say  they're  pearls,  and 
that  my  taste  has  suddenly  changed  to  diamonds."  He 
bowed  mockingly.  "  So,  dear  lady,  keep  your  pearls." 

And  he  stood  aside,  opening  the  door  for  her.  She 
hesitated,  dazed  that  she  was  leaving,  with  the  feeling 
of  the  conquered,  a  field  on  which,  by  all  the  precedents, 
she  ought  to  have  been  victor.  She  passed  a  troubled 
night,  debated  whether  to  relate  her  queer  experience  to 
Mrs.  Belloc,  decided  for  silence.  It  drafted  into  service 
all  her  reserve  of  courage  to  walk  into  the  theater  the 
next  day  and  to  appear  on  the  stage  among  the  assem 
bled  company  with  her  usual  air.  Ransdell  greeted  her 
with  his  customary  friendly  courtesy  and  gave  her  his 
attention,  as  always.  By  the  time  they  had  got  through 
the  first  act,  in  which  her  part  was  one  of  four  of  about 
equal  importance,  she  had  recovered  herself  and  was  in 
the  way  to  forget  the  strange  stage  director's  strange 
attack  and  even  stranger  retreat.  But  the  situation 
changed  with  the  second  act,  in  which  she  was  on  the 
stage  all  the  time  and  had  the  whole  burden.  The  act 
as  originally  written  had  been  less  generous  to  her ;  but 
Ransdell  had  taken  one  thing  after  another  away  from 
the  others  and  had  given  it  to  her.  She  made  her  first 
entrance  precisely  as  he  had  trained  her  to  make  it  and 
began.  A  few  seconds,  and  he  stopped  her. 

3S5 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Please  try  again,  Miss  Gower,"  said  he.  "  I'm 
afraid  that  won't  do." 

She  tried  again ;  again  he  stopped  her.  She  tried  a 
third  time.  His  manner  was  all  courtesy  and  consider 
ation,  not  the  shade  of  a  change.  But  she  began  to 
feel  a  latent  hostility.  Instinctively  she  knew  that 
he  would  no  longer  help  her,  that  he  would  leave 
her  to  her  own  resources,  and  judge  her  by  how  she 
acquitted  herself.  She  made  a  blunder  of  her  third 
trial. 

"  Really,  Miss  Gower,  that  will  never  do,"  said  he 
mildly.  "  Let  me  show  you  how  you  did  it." 

He  gave  an  imitation  of  her  —  a  slight  caricature. 
A  titter  ran  through  the  chorus.  He  sternly  rebuked 
them  and  requested  her  to  try  again.  Her  fourth  at 
tempt  was  her  worst.  He  shook  his  head  in  gentle 
remonstrance.  "  Not  quite  right  yet,"  said  he  regret 
fully.  "  But  we'll  go  on." 

Not  far,  however.  He  stopped  her  again.  Again 
the  courteous,  kindly  criticism.  And  so  on,  through 
the  entire  act.  By  the  end  of  it,  Mildred's  nerves  were 
unstrung.  She  saw  the  whole  game,  and  realized  how 
helpless  she  was.  Before  the  end  of  that  rehearsal,  Mil 
dred  had  slipped  back  from  promising  professional  into 
clumsy  amateur,  tolerable  only  because  of  the  beautiful 
freshness  of  her  voice  —  and  it  was  a  question  whether 
voice  alone  would  save  her.  Yet  no  one  but  Mildred 
herself  suspected  that  Ransdell  had  done  it,  had  re 
venged  himself,  had  served  notice  on  her  that  since  she 
felt  strong  enough  to  stand  alone  she  was  to  have  every 
opportunity  to  do  so.  He  had  said  nothing  disagree- 

336 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


able ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  been  most  courteous,  most 
forbearing. 

In  the  third  act  she  was  worse  than  in  the  second. 
At  the  end  of  the  rehearsal  the  others,  theretofore  flat 
tering1  and  encouraging,  turned  away  to  talk  among 
themselves  and  avoided  her.  Ransdell,  about  to  leave, 
said: 

"  Don't  look  so  down-hearted,  Miss  Gower.  You'll 
be  all  right  to-morrow.  An  off  day's  nothing." 

He  said  it  loudly  enough  for  the  others  to  hear.  Mil 
dred's  face  grew  red  with  white  streaks  across  it,  like 
the  prints  of  a  lash.  The  subtlest  feature  of  his  ma 
levolence  had  been  that,  whereas  on  other  days  he  had 
taken  her  aside  to  criticize  her,  on  this  day  he  had 
spoken  out  —  gently,  deprecatingly,  but  frankly  —  be 
fore  the  whole  company.  Never  had  Mildred  Gower 
been  so  sad  and  so  blue  as  she  was  that  day  and  that 
night.  She  came  to  the  rehearsal  the  following  day  with 
a  sore  throat.  She  sang,  but  her  voice  cracked  on  the 
high  notes.  It  was  a  painful  exhibition.  Her  fellow 
principals,  who  had  been  rather  glad  of  her  set-back 
the  day  before,  were  full  of  pity  and  sympathy.  They 
did  not  express  it;  they  were  too  kind  for  that.  But 
their  looks,  their  drawing  away  from  her  —  Mildred 
could  have  borne  sneers  and  jeers  better.  And  Ransdell 
was  so  forbearing,  so  gentle. 

Her  voice  got  better,  got  worse.  Her  acting  re 
mained  mediocre  to  bad.  At  the  fifth  rehearsal  after 
the  break  with  the  stage-director,  Mildred  saw  Crossley 
seated  far  back  in  the  dusk  of  the  empty  theater.  It  was 
his  first  appearance  at  rehearsals  since  the  middle  of 

337 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAIJJ 


the  first  week.  As  soon  as  he  had  satisfied  himself  that 
all  was  going  well,  he  had  given  his  attention  to  other 
matters  where  things  were  not  going  well.  Mildred 
knew  why  he  was  there  —  and  she  acted  and  sang  atro 
ciously.  Ransdell  aggravated  her  nervousness  by  osten 
tatiously  trying  to  help  her,  by  making  seemingly 
adroit  attempts  to  cover  her  mistakes  —  attempts  ap 
parently  thwarted  and  exposed  only  because  she  was 
hopelessly  bad. 

In  the  pause  between  the  second  and  third  acts  Rans 
dell  went  down  and  sat  with  Crossley,  and  they  engaged 
in  earnest  conversation.  The  while,  the  members  of  the 
company  wandered  restlessly  about  the  stage,  making 
feeble  attempts  to  lift  the  gloom  with  affected  cheerful 
ness.  Ransdell  returned  to  the  stage,  went  up  to  Mil 
dred,  who  was  sitting  idly  turning  the  leaves  of  a 
part-book. 

"  Miss  Gower,"  said  he,  and  never  had  his  voice  been 
so  friendly  as  in  these  regretful  accents,  "  don't  try  to 
go  on  to-day.  You're  evidently  not  yourself.  Go  home 
and  rest  for  a  few  days.  We'll  get  along  with  your 
understudy,  Miss  Esmond.  When  Mr.  Crossley  wants 
to  put  you  in  again,  he'll  send  for  you.  You  mustn't 
be  discouraged.  I  know  how  beginners  take  these 
things  to  heart.  Don't  fret  about  it.  You  can't  fail 
to  succeed." 

Mildred  rose  and,  how  she  never  knew,  crossed  the 
stage.  She  stumbled  into  the  flats,  fumbled  her  way  to 
the  passageway,  to  her  dressing-room.  She  felt  that 
she  must  escape  from  that  theater  quickly,  or  she  would 
give  way  to  some  sort  of  wild  attack  of  nerves.  She 

338 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


fairly  ran  through  the  streets  to  Mrs.  Belloc's,  shut  her 
self  in  her  room.  But  instead  of  the  relief  of  a  storm  of 
tears,  there  came  a  black,  hideous  depression.  Hour 
after  hour  she  sat,  almost  without  motion.  The  after 
noon  waned ;  the  early  darkness  came.  Still  she  did  not 
move  —  could  not  move.  At  eight  o'clock  Mrs.  Belloc 
knocked.  Mildred  did  not  answer.  Her  door  opened 
—  she  had  forgotten  to  lock  it.  In  came  Mrs.  Belloc. 

"  Isn't  that  you,  sitting  by  the  window  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mildred. 

"I  recognized  the  outline  of  your  hat.  Besides,  who 
else  could  it  be  but  you?  I've  saved  some  dinner  for 
you.  I  thought  you  were  still  out." 

Mildred  did  not  answer. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Agnes?  "111?  bad 
news?" 

"  I've  lost  my  position,"  said  Mildred. 

A  pause.  Then  Mrs.  Belloc  felt  her  way  across  the 
room  until  she  was  touching  the  girl.  "  Tell  me  about 
it,  dear,"  said  she. 

In  a  monotonous,  lifeless  way  Mildred  told  the  story. 
It  was  some  time  after  she  finished  when  Agnes  said: 

"  That's  bad  —  bad,  but  it  might  be  worse.  You 
must  go  to  see  the  manager,  Crossley." 

"Why?"  said  Mildred. 

"  Tell  him  what  you  told  me." 

Mildred's  silence  was  dissent. 

"  It  can't  do  any  harm,"  urged  Agnes. 

"  It  can't  do  any  good,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  That  isn't  the  way  to  look  at  it." 

A  long  pause.  Then  Mildred  said :  "  If  I  got  a 
339 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


place  somewhere  else,  I'd  meet  the  same  thing  in  an 
other  form." 

"  You've  got  to  risk  that." 

"  Besides,  I'd  never  have  had  a  chance  of  succeeding 
if  Mr.  Ransdell  hadn't  taught  me  and  stood  behind 
me." 

It  was  many  minutes  before  Agnes  Belloc  said  in  a 
hesitating,  restrained  voice :  "  They  say  that  success 

—  any  kind  of  success  —  has  its  price,  and  that  one  has 
to  be  ready  to  pay  that  price  or  fail." 

Again  the  profound  silence.  Into  it  gradually  pen 
etrated  the  soft,  insistent  sound  of  the  distant  roar  of 
New  York  —  a  cruel,  clamorous,  devouring  sound  like 
a  demand  for  that  price  of  success.  Said  Agnes  tim- 
idly: 

"  Why  not  go  to  see  Mr.  Ransdell." 

"  He  wouldn't  make  it  up,"  said  Mildred.     "  And  I 

—  I    couldn't.     I   tried   to   marry    Stanley   Baird   for 
money  —  and  I  couldn't.     It  would  be  the  same  way 
now  —  only  more  so." 

"  But  you've  got  to  do  something." 

"  Yes,  and  I  will."  Mildred  had  risen  abruptly,  was 
standing  at  the  window.  Agnes  Belloc  could  feel  her 
soul  rearing  defiantly  at  the  city  into  which  she  was 
gazing.  "  I  will !  "  she  replied. 

"  It  sounds  as  if  you'd  been  pushed  to  where  you'd 
turn  and  make  a  fight,"  said  Agnes. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mildred.     "  It's  high  time." 

She  thought  out  several  more  or  less  ingenious  indi 
rect  routes  into  Mr.  Crossley's  stronghold,  for  use  in 
case  frontal  attack  failed.  But  she  did  not  need  them. 

340 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Still,  the  hours  she  spent  in  planning  them  were  by  no 
means  wasted.  No  time  is  wasted  that  is  spent  in  des 
perate,  concentrated  thinking  about  any  of  the  prac 
tical  problems  of  life.  And  Mildred  Gower,  as  much 
as  any  other  woman  of  her  training  —  or  lack  of  train 
ing  —  was  deficient  in  ability  to  use  her  mind  purpose 
fully.  Most  of  us  let  our  minds  act  like  a  sheep  in  a 
pasture  —  go  wandering  hither  and  yon,  nibbling  at 
whatever  happens  to  offer.  Only  the  superior  few  de 
liberately  select  a  pasture,  select  a  line  of  procedure  in 
that  pasture  and  keep  to  it,  concentrating  upon  what 
is  useful  to  us,  and  that  alone.  So  it  was  excellent  ex 
perience  for  Mildred  to  sit  down  and  think  connectedly 
and  with  w7holly  absorbed  mind  upon  the  phase  of  her 
career  most  important  at  the  moment.  When  she  had 
worked  out  all  the  plans  that  had  promise  in  them  she 
went  tranquilly  to  sleep,  a  stronger  and  a  more  deter 
mined  person,  for  she  had  said  with  the  energy  that 
counts :  "  I  shall  see  him,  somehow.  If  none  of  these 
schemes  works,  I'll  work  out  others.  He's  got  to  see 
me." 

But  it  was  no  occult  "  bearing  down  "  that  led  him 
to  order  her  admitted  the  instant  her  card  came.  He 
liked  her;  he  wished  to  see  her  again;  he  felt  that  it 
was  the  decent  thing,  and  somehow  not  difficult  gently 
but  clearly  to  convey  to  her  the  truth.  On  her  side  she, 
who  had  looked  forward  to  the  interview  with  some 
nervousness,  was  at  her  ease  the  moment  she  faced  him 
alone  in  that  inner  office.  He  had  extraordinary  per 
sonal  charm  —  more  than  Ransdell,  though  Ransdell 
had  the  charm  invariably  found  in  a  handsome  human 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


being1  with  the  many-sided  intellect  that  gives  light 
ness  of  mind.  Crossley  was  not  intellectual,  not  in  the 
least.  One  had  only  to  glance  at  him  to  see  that  he 
was  one  of  those  men  who  reserve  all  their  intelligence 
for  the  practical  sides  of  the  practical  thing  that  forms 
the  basis  of  their  material  career.  He  knew  something 
of  many  things,  had  a  wonderful  assortment  of  talents 
—  could  sing,  could  play  piano  or  violin,  could  compose, 
could  act,  could  do  mystifying  card  tricks,  could  order 
women's  clothes  as  discriminatingly  as  he  could  order 
his  own  —  all  these  things  a  little,  but  nothing  much 
except  making  a  success  of  musical  comedy  and  comic 
opera.  He  had  an  ambition,  carefully  restrained  in  a 
closet  of  his  mind,  where  it  could  not  issue  forth  and 
interfere  with  his  business.  This  ambition  was  to  be  a 
giver  of  grand  opera  on  a  superb  scale.  He  regarded 
himself  as  a  mere  money-maker  —  was  not  ashamed  of 
this,  but  neither  was  he  proud  of  it.  His  ambition  then 
represented  a  dream  of  a  rise  to  something  more  than 
business  man,  to  friend  and  encourager  and  wet  nurse 
to  art. 

Mildred  Gower  had  happened  to  set  his  imagination 
to  working.  The  discovery  that  she  was  one  of  those 
whose  personalities  rouse  high  expectations  only  to  mock 
them  had  been  a  severe  blow  to  his  confidence  in  his  own 
judgment.  Though  he  pretended  to  believe,  and  had 
the  habit  of  saying  that  he  was  "  weak  and  soft,"  was 
always  being  misled  by  his  good  nature,  he  really  be 
lieved  himself  an  unerring  judge  of  human  beings,  and, 
as  his  success  evidenced,  he  was  not  far  wrong.  Thus, 
though  convinced  that  Mildred  was  a  "  false  alarm," 

342 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


his  secret  vanity  would  not  let  him  release  his  original 
idea.  He  had  the  tenacity  that  is  an  important  element 
in  all  successes;  and  tenacity  become  a  fixed  habit  has 
even  been  known  to  ruin  in  the  end  the  very  careers  it 
has  made. 

Said  Mildred,  in  a  manner  which  was  astonishingly 
unemotional  and  businesslike :  "  I've  not  come  to  tattle 
and  to  whine,  Mr.  Crossley.  I've  hesitated  about  com 
ing  at  all,  partly  because  I've  an  instinct  it's  useless, 
partly  because  what  I  have  to  say  isn't  easy." 

Crossley's  expression  hardened.  The  old  story !  — 
excuses,  excuses,  self -excuse  —  somebody  else  to  blame. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr.  Ransdell  —  the  trouble 
he  took  with  me,  the  coaching  he  gave  me  —  I'd  have 
been  a  ridiculous  failure  at  the  very  first  rehearsal.  But 
—  it  is  to  Mr.  Ransdell  that  my  failure  is  due." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Gower,"  said  Crossley,  polite  but 
cold,  "  I  regret  hearing  you  say  that.  The  fact  is 
very  different.  Not  until  you  had  done  so  —  so  unac- 
ceptably  at  several  rehearsals  that  news  of  it  reached 
me  by  another  way  —  not  until  I  myself  went  to  Mr. 
Ransdell  about  you  did  he  admit  that  there  could  be  a 
possibility  of  a  doubt  of  your  succeeding.  I  had  to  go 
to  rehearsal  myself  and  directly  order  him  to  restore 
Miss  Esmond  and  lay  you  off." 

Mildred  was  not  unprepared.  She  received  this  tran 
quilly.  "  Mr.  Ransdell  is  a  very  clever  man,"  said  she 
with  perfect  good  humor.  "  I've  no  hope  of  convincing 
you,  but  I  must  tell  my  side." 

And  clearly  and  simply,  with  no  concealments  through 
fear  of  disturbing  his  high  ideal  of  her  ladylike  deli- 

343 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


cacy,  she  told  him  the  story.  He  listened,  seated  well 
back  in  his  tilted  desk-chair,  his  gaze  upon  the  ceiling. 
When  she  finished  he  held  his  pose  a  moment,  then  got 
up  and  paced  the  length  of  the  office  several  times,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  He  paused,  looked  keenly  at  her, 
a  good-humored  smile  in  those  eyes  of  his  so  fascinating 
to  women  because  of  their  frank  wavering  of  an  incon 
stancy  it  would  indeed  be  a  triumph  to  seize  and  hold. 
Said  he: 

"  And  your  bad  throat  ?  Did  Ransdell  give  you  a 
germ?  " 

She  colored.  He  had  gone  straight  at  the  weak 
point. 

"  If  you'd  been  able  to  sing,"  he  went  on,  "  nobody 
could  have  done  you  up." 

She  could  not  gather  herself  together  for  speech. 

"  Didn't  you  know  your  voice  wasn't  reliable  when 
you  came  to  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted. 

"  And  wasn't  that  the  real  reason  you  had  given  up 
grand  opera?  "  pursued  he  mercilessly. 

"  The  reason  was  what  I  told  you  —  lack  of  money," 
replied  she.  "  I  did  not  go  into  the  reason  why  I  lacked 
money.  Why  should  I  when,  even  on  my  worst  days, 
I  could  get  through  all  my  part  in  a  musical  comedy  — 
except  songs  that  could  be  cut  down  or  cut  out?  If  I 
could  have  made  good  at  acting,  would  you  have  given 
me  up  on  account  of  my  voice  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  had  been  good  enough,"  he  admitted. 

"  Then  I  did  not  get  my  engagement  on  false  pre 
tenses?" 

344 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  No.  You  are  right.  Still,  your  fall-down  as  a 
singer  is  the  important  fact.  Don't  lose  sight  of  it." 

"  I  shan't,"  said  she  tersely. 

His  eyes  were  frankly  laughing.  "  As  to  Ransdell 
—  what  a  clever  trick!  He's  a  remarkable  man.  If 
he  weren't  so  shrewd  in  those  little  ways,  he  might  have 
been  a  great  man.  Same  old  story  —  just  a  little  too 
smart,  and  so  always  doing  the  little  thing  and  missing 
the  big  thing.  Yes,  he  went  gunning  for  you  —  and 
got  you."  He  dropped  into  his  chair.  He  thought  a 
moment,  laughed  aloud,  went  on :  "  No  doubt  he  has 
worked  that  same  trick  many  a  time.  I've  suspected  it 
once  or  twice,  but  this  time  he  fooled  me.  He  got  you, 
Miss  Gower,  and  I  can  do  nothing.  You  must  see  that 
I  can't  look  after  details.  And  I  can't  give  up  as  in 
valuable  a  man  as  Ransdell.  If  I  put  you  back,  he'd 
put  you  out  —  would  make  the  piece  fail  rather  than  let 
you  succeed." 

Mildred  was  gazing  somberly  at  the  floor. 

"  It's  hard  lines  —  devilish  hard  lines,"  he  went  on 
sympathetically.  "  But  what  can  I  do?  " 

"What  can  I  do?"  said  Mildred. 

"  Do  as  all  people  do  who  succeed  —  meet  the  condi 
tions." 

"  I'm  not  prepared  to  go  as  far  as  that,  at  least  not 
yet,"  said  she  with  bitter  sarcasm.  "  Perhaps  when 
I'm  actually  starving  and  in  rags  — " 

"  A  very  distressing  future,"  interrupted  Crossley. 
"  But  —  I  didn't  make  the  world.  Don't  berate  me. 
Be  sensible  —  and  be  honest,  Miss  Gower,  and  tell  me  — 
how  could  I  possibly  protect  you  and  continue  to  give 

345 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


successful  shows  ?  If  you  can  suggest  any  feasible  way, 
I'll  take  it." 

66  No,  there  isn't  any  way,"  replied  she,  rising  to  go. 

He  rose  to  escort  her  to  the  hall  door.  "  Personally, 
the  Ransdell  sort  of  thing  is  —  distasteful  to  me.  Per 
haps  if  I  were  not  so  busy  I  might  be  forced  by  my  own 
giddy  misconduct  to  take  less  high  ground.  I've  ob 
served  that  the  best  that  can  be  said  for  human  nature 
at  its  best  is  that  it  is  as  well  behaved  as  its  real  tempta 
tions  permit.  He  was  making  you,  you  know.  You've 
admitted  it." 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  that,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Mind  you,  I'm  not  excusing  him.  I'm  simply  ex 
plaining  him.  If  your  voice  had  been  all  right  —  if 
you  could  have  stood  to  any  degree  the  test  he  put  you 
to,  the  test  of  standing  alone  —  you'd  have  defeated 
him.  He  wouldn't  have  dared  go  on.  He's  too  shrewd 
to  think  a  real  talent  can  be  beaten." 

The  strong  lines,  the  latent  character,  in  Mildred's 
face  were  so  strongly  in  evidence  that  looking  at  her 
then  no  one  would  have  thought  of  her  beauty  or  even 
of  her  sex,  but  only  of  the  force  that  resists  all  and  over 
comes  all.  "  Yes  —  the  voice,"  said  she.  "  The  voice." 

"  If  it's  ever  reliable,  come  to  see  me.  Until  then  — " 
He  put  out  his  hand.  When  she  gave  him  hers,  he  held 
it  in  a  way  that  gave  her  no  impulse  to  draw  back. 
"  You  know  the  conditions  of  success  now.  You  must 
prepare  to  meet  them.  If  you  put  yourself  at  the  mercy 
of  the  Ransdells  —  or  any  other  of  the  petty  intriguers 
that  beset  every  avenue  of  success  —  you  must  take  the 
consequences,  you  must  conciliate  them  as  best  you  can. 

346 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


If  you  don't  wish  to  be  at  their  mercy,  you  must  do 
your  part." 

She  nodded.  He  released  her  hand,  opened  the  hall 
door.  He  said: 

"  Forgive  my  little  lecture.  But  I  like  you,  and  I 
can't  help  having  hope  of  you."  He  smiled  charm 
ingly,  his  keen,  inconstant  eyes  dimming.  "  Perhaps  I 
hope  because  you're  young  and  extremely  lovely  and  I 
am  pitifully  susceptible.  You  see,  you'd  better  go. 
Every  man's  a  Ransdell  at  heart  where  pretty  women 
are  concerned." 

She  did  not  leave  the  building.  She  went  to  the  ele 
vator  and  asked  the  boy  where  she  could  find  Signor 
Moldini.  His  office  was  the  big  room  on  the  third  floor 
where  voice  candidates  were  usually  tried  out,  three  days 
in  the  week.  At  the  moment  he  was  engaged.  Mildred, 
seated  in  the  tiny  anteroom,  heard  through  the  glass 
door  a  girl  singing,  or  trying  to  sing.  It  was  a  dis 
tressing  performance,  and  Mildred  wondered  that  Mol- 
dini  could  be  so  tolerant  as  to  hear  her  through.  He 
came  to  the  door  with  her,  thanked  her  profusely,  told 
her  he  would  let  her  know  whenever  there  was  an  open 
ing  "  suited  to  your  talents."  As  he  observed  Mildred, 
he  was  still  sighing  and  shaking  his  head  over  the  de 
parted  candidate. 

"  Ugly  and  ignorant ! "  he  groaned.  "  Poor  crea 
ture  !  Poor,  poor  creature.  She  makes  three  dollars  a 
week  —  in  a  factory  owned  by  a  great  philanthropist. 
Three  dollars  a  week.  And  she  has  no  way  to  make  a 
cent  more.  Miss  Gower,  they  talk  about  the  sad, 
naughty,  girls  who  sell  themselves  in  the  street  to  piece 

347 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


out  their  wages.  But  think,  dear  young  lady,  how  in 
finitely  better  off  they  are  than  the  ugly  ones  who  can't 
piece  out  their  wages." 

There  he  looked  directly  at  her  for  the  first  time. 
Before  she  could  grasp  the  tragic  sadness  of  his  idea, 
he,  with  the  mobility  of  candid  and  highly  sensitized 
natures,  shifted  from  melancholy  to  gay,  for  in  looking 
at  her  he  had  caught  only  the  charm  of  dress,  of  face, 
of  arrangement  of  hair.  "  What  a  pleasure !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  bursting  into  smiles  and  seizing  and  kissing  her 
gloved  hands.  "  Voice  like  a  bird,  face  like  an  angel 
—  only  not  too  good,  no,  not  too  good.  But  it  is  so 
rare  —  to  look  as  one  sings,  to  sing  as  one  looks." 

For  once,  compliment,  sincere  compliment  from  one 
whose  opinion  was  worth  while,  gave  Mildred  pain.  She 
burst  out  with  her  news :  "  Signer  Moldini,  I've  lost 
my  place  in  the  company.  My  voice  has  gone  back 
on  me." 

Usually  Moldini  abounded  in  the  consideration  of  fine 
natures  that  have  suffered  deeply  from  lack  of  consider 
ation.  But  he  was  so  astounded  that  he  could  only  stare 
stupidly  at  her,  smoothing  his  long  greasy  hair  with  his 
thin  brown  hand. 

"  It's  all  my  fault ;  I  don't  take  care  of  myself,"  she 
went  on.  "  I  don't  take  care  of  my  health.  At  least, 
I  hope  that's  it." 

"  Hope !  "  he  said,  suddenly  angry. 

"  Hope  so,  because  if  it  isn't  that,  then  I've  no  chance 
for  a  career,"  explained  she. 

He  looked  at  her  feet,  pointed  an  uncannily  long 
forefinger  at  them.  "  The  crossings  and  sidewalks  are 

348 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


slush  —  and  you,  a  singer,  without  overshoes  !  Lunacy ! 
Lunacy !  " 

"  I've  never  worn  overshoes,"  said  Mildred  apolo 
getically. 

"  Don't  tell  me !  I  wish  not  to  hear.  It  makes  me 
—  like  madness  here."  He  struck  his  low  sloping  brow 
with  his  palm.  "  What  vanity !  That  the  feet  may 
look  well  to  the  passing  stranger,  no  overshoes !  Rheu 
matism,  sore  throat,  colds,  pneumonia.  Is  it  not  dis 
gusting.  If  you  were  a  man  I  should  swear  in  all  the 
languages  I  know  —  which  are  five,  including  Hunga 
rian,  and  when  one  swears  in  Hungarian  it  is  4  going 
some,'  as  you  say  in  America.  Yes,  it  is  going  quite 
some." 

"  I  shall  wear  overshoes,"  said  Mildred. 

"  And  indigestion  —  you  have  that  ?  " 

"  A  little,  I  guess." 

"  Much  —  much,  I  tell  you !  "  cried  Moldini,  shaking 
the  long  finger  at  her.  "  You  Americans !  You  eat 
too  fast  and  you  eat  too  much.  That  is  why  you  are 
always  sick,  and  consulting  the  doctors  who  give  the 
medicines  that  make  worse,  not  better.  Yes,  you  Ameri 
cans  are  like  children.  You  know  nothing.  Sing? 
Americans  cannot  sing  until  they  learn  that  a  stomach 
isn't  a  waste-basket,  to  toss  everything  into.  You  have 
been  to  that  throat  specialist,  Hicks  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Mildred  brightening.  "  He  said 
there  was  nothing  organically  wrong." 

"  He  is  an  ass,  and  a  criminal.  He  ruins  throats. 
He  likes  to  cut,  and  he  likes  to  spray.  He  sprays  those 
poisons  that  relieve  colds  and  paralyze  the  throat  and 

349 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


cords.  Americans  sing?  It  is  to  laugh!  They  have 
too  many  doctors;  they  take  too  many  pills.  Do  you 
know  what  your  national  emblem  should  be?  A  dollar- 
sign  —  yes.  But  that  for  all  nations.  No,  a  pill  —  a 
pill,  I  tell  you.  You  take  pills?  " 

"  Now  and  then,"  said  Mildred,  laughing.  "  I  admit 
I  have  several  kinds  always  on  hand." 

"  You  see !  "  cried  he  triumphantly.  "  No,  it  is  not 
mere  art  that  America  needs,  but  more  sense  about  eat 
ing  —  and  to  keep  away  from  the  doctors.  People  full 
of  pills,  they  cannot  make  poems  and  pictures,  and  write 
operas  and  sing  them.  Throw  away  those  pills,  dear 
young  lady,  I  implore  you." 

"  Signor  Moldini,  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  help 
me." 

Instantly  the  Italian  cleared  his  face  of  its  half- 
humorous,  half -querulous  expression.  In  its  place  came 
a  grave  and  courteous  eagerness  to  serve  her  that  was  a 
pleasure,  even  if  it  was  not  altogether  sincere.  And 
Mildred  could  not  believe  it  sincere.  Why  should  he 
care  what  became  of  her,  or  be  willing  to  put  himself 
out  for  her? 

"  You  told  me  one  day  that  you  had  at  one  time 
taught  singing,"  continued  she. 

"  Until  I  was  starved  out,"  replied  he.  "  I  told  peo 
ple  the  truth.  If  they  could  not  sing  I  said  so.  If 
they  sang  badly  I  told  them  why,  and  it  was  always  the 
upset  stomach,  the  foolish  food,  and  people  will  not  take 
care  about  food.  They  will  eat  what  they  please,  and 
they  say  eating  is  good  for  them,  and  that  anyone  who 
opposes  them  is  a  crank.  So  most  of  my  pupils  left, 

350 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


except  those  I  taught  for  nothing  —  and  they  did  not 
heed  me,  and  came  to  nothing." 

"  You  showed  me  in  ten  minutes  one  day  how  to  cure 
my  worst  fault.  I've  sung  better,  more  naturally  ever 
since." 

"  You  could  sing  like  the  birds.  You  do  —  almost. 
You  could  be  taught  to  sing  as  freely  and  sweetly  and 
naturally  as  a  flower  gives  perfume.  That  is  your  di 
vine  gift,  young  lady  —  song  as  pure  and  fresh  as  a 
bird's  song  raining  down  through  the  leaves  from  the 
tree-top." 

"  I  have  no  money.  I've  got  to  get  it,  and  I  shall 
get  it,"  continued  Mildred.  "  I  want  you  to  teach  me 
—  at  any  hour  that  you  are  free.  And  I  want  to  know 
how  much  you  will  charge,  so  that  I  shall  know  how 
much  to  get." 

"  Two  dollars  a  lesson.  Or,  if  you  take  six  lessons 
a  week,  ten  dollars.  Those  were  my  terms.  I  could 
not  take  less." 

"  It  is  too  little,"  said  Mildred.  "  The  poorest  kinds 
of  teachers  get  five  dollars  an  hour  —  and  teach  noth- 
ing." 

"  Two  dollars,  ten  dollars  a  week,"  replied  he.  "  It 
is  the  most  I  ever  could  get.  I  will  not  take  more  from 
you." 

"  It  is  too  little,"  said  she.  "  But  I'll  not  insist  — 
for  obvious  reasons.  Now,  if  you'll  give  me  your  home 
address,  I'll  go.  When  I  get  the  money,  I'll  write  to 
you." 

"  But  wait !  "  cried  he,  as  she  rose  to  depart.  "  Why 
so  hurried?  Let  us  see.  Take  off  the  wrap.  Step  be- 

351 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


hind  the  screen  and  loosen  your  corset.  Perhaps  even 
you  could  take  it  off?  " 

"  Not  without  undressing,"  said  Mildred.  "  But  I 
can  do  that  if  it's  necessary."  She  laughed  queerly. 
"  From  this  time  on  I'll  do  anything  that's  neces 
sary." 

"  No, —  never  mind.  The  dress  of  woman  —  of 
your  kind  .of  women.  It  is  not  serious."  He  laughed 
grimly.  "  As  for  the  other  kind,  their  dress  is  the  only 
serious  thing  about  them.  It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that 
women  who  dress  badly  are  serious.  My  experience  has 
been  that  they  are  the  most  foolish  of  all.  Fashionable 
dress  —  it  is  part  of  a  woman's  tools.  It  shows  that 
she  is  good  at  her  business.  The  women  who  try  to 
dress  like  men,  they  are  good  neither  at  men's  business 
nor  at  women's." 

This,  while  Mildred  was  behind  the  screen,  loosening 
her  corset  —  though,  in  fact,  she  wore  it  so  loose  at  all 
times  that  she  inconvenienced  herself  simply  to  show  her 
willingness  to  do  as  she  was  told.  When  she  came  out, 
Moldini  put  her  through  a  rigid  physical  examination 
—  made  her  breathe  while  he  held  one  hand  on  her 
stomach,  the  other  on  her  back,  listened  at  her  heart, 
opened  wide  her  throat  and  peered  down,  thrust  his  long 
strong  fingers  deep  into  the  muscles  of  her  arms,  her 
throat,  her  chest,  until  she  had  difficulty  in  not  crying 
out  with  pain. 

"  The  foundation  is  there,"  was  his  verdict.  "  You 
have  a  good  body,  good  muscles,  but  flabby  —  a  lady's 
muscles,  not  an  opera  singer's.  And  you  are  stiff  — 
not  so  stiff  as  when  you  first  came  here,  but  stiff  for  a 

352 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


professional.     Ah,    we   must   go   at   this    scientifically, 
thoroughly." 

"  You  will  teach  me  to  breathe  —  and  how  to  produce 
my  voice  naturally  ?  " 

66 1  will  teach  you  nothing,"  replied  he.  "  I  will  tell 
you  what  to  do,  and  you  will  teach  yourself.  You  must 
get  strong  —  strong  in  the  supple  way  —  and  then  you 
will  sing  as  God  intended.  The  way  to  sing,  dear 
young  lady,  is  to  sing.  Not  to  breathe  artificially,  and 
make  faces,  and  fuss  with  your  throat,  but  simply  to 
drop  your  mouth  and  throat  open  and  let  it  out ! " 

Mildred  produced  from  her  hand-bag  the  Keith 
paper.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

Presently  he  looked  up  from  his  reading.  "  This 
part  I  have  seen  before,"  said  he.  "  It  is  Lucia  Rivi's. 
Her  cousin,  Lotta  Drusini,  showed  it  to  me  —  she  was 
a  great  singer  also." 

"  You  approve  of  it?  " 

"  If  you  will  follow  that  for  two  years,  faithfully, 
you  will  be  securely  great,  and  then  you  will  follow  it 
all  your  singing  life  —  and  it  will  be  long.  But  re 
member,  dear  young  lady,  I  said  if  you  follow  it,  and 
I  said  faithfully.  I  do  not  believe  you  can." 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Mildred. 

"  Because  that  means  self-denial,  colossal  self-denial. 
You  love  things  to  eat  —  yes  ?  " 

Mildred  nodded. 

"  We  all  do,"  said  Moldini.  "  And  we  hate  routine, 
and  we  like  foolish,  aimless  little  pleasures  of  all  kinds." 

"  And  it  will  be  two  years  before  I  can  try  grand 
opera  —  can  make  my  living?"  said  Mildred  slowly. 

353 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  did  not  say  that.  I  said,  before  you  would  be 
great.  No,  you  can  sing,  I  think,  in  —  wait." 

Moldini  flung  rapidly  through  an  enormous  mass  of 
music  on  a  large  table.  "  Ah,  here !  "  he  cried,  and  he 
showed  her  a  manuscript  of  scales.  "  Those  two  pa 
pers.  It  does  not  look  much?  Well,  I  have  made  it 
up,  myself.  And  when  you  can  sing  those  two  papers 
perfectly,  you  will  be  a  greater  singer  than  any  that 
ever  lived."  He  laughed  delightedly.  "  Yes,  it  is  all 
there  —  in  two  pages.  But  do  not  weep,  dear  lady,  be 
cause  you  will  never  sing  them  perfectly.  You  will  do 
very  well  if  —  Always  that  if,  remember !  Now,  let 
us  see.  Take  this,  sit  in  the  chair,  and  begin.  Don't 
bother  about  me.  I  expect  nothing.  Just  do  the  best 
you  can." 

Desperation,  when  it  falls  short  of  despair,  is  the 
best  word  for  achievement.  Mildred's  voice,  especially 
at  the  outset,  was  far  from  perfect  condition.  Her 
high  notes,  which  had  never  been  developed  properly, 
were  almost  bad.  But  she  acquitted  herself  admirably 
from  the  standpoint  of  showing  what  her  possibilities 
were.  And  Moldini,  unkempt,  almost  unclean,  but  as 
natural  and  simple  and  human  a  soul  as  ever  paid  the 
penalties  of  poverty  and  obscurity  and  friendlessness 
for  being  natural  and  simple  and  human,  exactly  suited 
her  peculiar  temperament.  She  knew  that  he  liked  her, 
that  he  believed  in  her ;  she  knew  that  he  was  as  sympa 
thetic  toward  her  as  her  own  self,  that  there  was  no 
meanness  anywhere  in  him.  So  she  sang  like  a  bird  — 
a  bird  that  was  not  too  well  in  soul  or  in  body,  but  still 
a  bird  out  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  airs  of  spring  cheer- 

354 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ing  his  breast  and  its  foliage  gladdening  his  eyes.  He 
kept  her  at  it  for  nearly  an  hour.  She  saw  that  he 
was  pleased,  that  he  had  thought  out  some  plan  and 
was  bursting  to  tell  her,  but  had  forbidden  himself  to 
speak  of  it.  He  said : 

"  You  say  you  have  no  money  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  shall  get  it." 

"  You  may  have  to  pay  high  for  it  —  yes  ?  " 

She  colored,  but  did  not  flinch.  "  At  worst,  it  will  be 
—  unpleasant,  but  that's  all." 

66  Wait  one  —  two  days  —  until  you  hear  from  me. 
I  may  —  I  do  not  say  will,  but  may  —  get  it.  Yes,  I 
who  have  nothing."  He  laughed  gayly.  "  And  we  — 
you  and  I  —  we  will  divide  the  spoils."  Gravely.  "  Do 
not  misunderstand.  That  was  my  little  joke.  If  I  get 
the  money  for  you  it  will  be  quite  honorable  and  busi 
nesslike.  So  —  wait,  dear  young  lady." 

As  she  was  going,  she  could  not  resist  saying: 

"  You  are  sure  I  can  sing?  —  if,  of  course  —  always 
the  if." 

"  It  is  not  to  be  doubted." 

"How  well,  do  you  think?" 

"  You  mean  how  many  dollars  a  night  well  ?  You 
mean  as  w^ll  as  this  great  singer  or  that?  I  do  not 
know.  And  you  are  not  to  compare  yourself  with  any 
one  but  yourself.  You  will  sing  as  well  as  Mildred 
Gower  at  her  best." 

For  some  reason  her  blood  went  tingling  through  her 
veins.  If  she  had  dared  she  would  have  kissed  him. 


355 


THAT  same  afternoon  Donald  Keith,  arrived  at  the 
top  of  Mrs.  Belloc's  steps,  met  Mildred  coming1  out. 
Seeing  their  greeting,  one  would  have  thought  they  had 
seen  each  other  but  a  few  minutes  before  or  were  casual 
acquaintances.  Said  she: 

"  I'm  going  for  a  walk." 

"  Let's  take  the  taxi,"  said  he. 

There  it  stood  invitingly  at  the  curb.  She  felt  tired. 
She  disliked  walking.  She  wished  to  sit  beside  him  and 
be  whirled  away  —  out  of  the  noisy  part  of  the  city,  up 
where  the  air  was  clean  and  where  there  were  no  crowds. 
But  she  had  begun  the  regimen  of  Lucia  Rivi.  She 
hesitated.  What  matter  if  she  began  now  or  put  off 
beginning  until  after  this  one  last  drive?. 

"  No,  we  will  walk,"  said  she. 

"  But  the  streets  are  in  frightful  condition." 

She  thrust  out  a  foot  covered  with  a  new  and  shiny 
storm-rubber. 

"  Let's  drive  to  the  park  then.     We'll  walk  there." 

"  No.  If  I  get  into  the  taxi,  I'll  not  get  out.  Send 
it  away." 

When  they  were  moving  afoot  up  Madison  Avenue, 
he  said:  "What's  the  matter?'  This  isn't  like  you." 

"  I've  come  to  my  senses,"  replied  she.  "  It  may  be 
too  late,  but  I'm  going  to  see." 

356 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  When  I  called  on  Mrs.  Brindley  the  other  day," 
said  he,  "  she  had  your  note,  saying  that  you  were  go 
ing  into  musical  comedy  with  Crossley." 

"  That's  over,"  said  she.  "  I  lost  my  voice,  and  I 
lost  my  job." 

"So  I  heard,"  said  he.  "I  know  Crossley.  I 
dropped  in  to  see  him  this  morning,  and  he  told  me 
about  a  foolish,  fashionable  girl  who  made  a  bluff  at 
going  on  the  stage  —  he  said  she  had  a  good  voice  and 
was  a  swell  looker,  but  proved  to  be  a  regular  *  four- 
flusher.'  I  recognized  you." 

"  Thanks,"  said  she  dryly. 

"  So,  I  came  to  see  you." 

She  inquired  about  Mrs.  Brindley  and  then  about 
Stanley  Baird.  Finding  that  he  was  in  Italy,  she  in 
quired  :  "  Do  you  happen  to  know  his  address  ?  " 

"  I'll  get  it  and  send  it  to  you.  He  has  taken  a  house 
at  Monte  Carlo  for  the  winter." 

"And  you?" 

"I  shall  stay  here  — I  think." 

"  You  may  join  him?  " 

"  It  depends  " —  he  looked  at  her  — "  upon  you." 

He  could  put  a  wonderful  amount  of  meaning  into  a 
slight  inflection.  She  struggled  —  not  in  vain  —  to 
keep  from  changing  expression. 

"  You  realize  now  that  the  career  is  quite  hopeless?  " 
said  he. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  You  do  not  like  the  stage  life?  " 

"  No." 

"  And  the  stage  life  does  not  like  you  ?  " 
357 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  No." 

"  Your  voice  lacks  both  strength  and  stability  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  have  found  the  one  way  by  which  you 
could  get  on  —  and  you  don't  like  it?  " 

"  Crossley  told  you  ?  "  said  she,  the  color  flaring. 

"  Your  name  was  not  mentioned.  You  may  not  be 
lieve  it,  but  Crossley  is  a  gentleman." 

She  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  I  did  not  expect  your  failure  to  come  so  soon  —  or 
in  quite  that  way,"  he  went  on.  "  I  got  Mrs.  Brindley 
to  exact  a  promise  from  you  that  you'd  let  her  know 
about  yourself.  I  called  on  Mrs.  Belloc  one  day  when 
you  were  out,  and  gave  her  my  confidence  and  got  hers 
—  and  assured  myself  that  you  were  in  good  hands. 
Crossley's  tale  gave  me  —  a  shock.  I  came  at  once." 

"  Then  you  didn't  abandon  me  to  my  fate,  as  I 
thought?" 

He  smiled  in  his  strange  way.  "  I  ?  —  when  I  loved 
you  ?  Hardly." 

"  Then  you  did  interest  yourself  in  me  because  you 
cared  —  precisely  as  I  said,"  laughed  she. 

"  And  I  should  have  given  you  up  if  you  had  suc 
ceeded —  precisely  as  I  said,"  replied  he. 

"  You  wished  me  to  fail?  " 

"  I  wished  you  to  fail.  I  did  everything  I  could  to 
help  you  to  succeed.  I  even  left  you  absolutely  alone, 
set  you  in  the  right  way  —  the  only  way  in  which  any- 


"  Yes,  you  made  me  throw  away  the  crutches  and  try 
to  walk." 

358 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  It  was  hard  to  do  that.  Those  strains  are  very 
wearing  at  my  time  of  life." 

"  You  never  were  any  younger,  and  you'll  never  be 
any  older,"  laughed  she.  "  That's  your  charm  —  one 
of  them." 

"  Mildred,  do  you  still  care?  " 

"How  did  you  know?"  inquired  she  mockingly. 

"  You  didn't  try  to  conceal  it.  I'd  not  have  ventured 
to  say  and  do  the  things  I  said  and  did  if  I  hadn't  felt 
that  we  cared  for  each  other.  But,  so  long  as  you  were 
leading  that  fatuous  life  and  dreaming  those  foolish 
dreams,  I  knew  we  could  never  be  happy." 

"  That  is  true  —  oh,  so  true,"  replied  she. 

"  But  now  —  you  have  tried,  and  that  has  made  a 
woman  of  you.  And  you  have  failed,  and  that  has 
made  you  ready  to  be  a  wife  —  to  be  happy  in  the  quiet, 
private  ways." 

She  was  silent. 

"  I  can  make  enough  for  us  both  —  as  much  as  we 
will  need  or  want  —  as  much  as  you  please,  if  you  aren't 
too  extravagant.  And  I  can  do  it  easily.  It's  making 
little  sums  —  a  small  income  —  that's  hard  in  this  ridic 
ulous  world.  Let's  marry,  go  to  California  or  Europe 
for  several  months,  then  come  back  here  and  live  like 
human  beings." 

She  was  silent.  Block  after  block  they  walked  along, 
as  if  neither  had  anything  especial  in  mind,  anything 
worth  the  trouble  of  speech.  Finally  he  said: 

"Well?" 

"  I  can't  answer  —  yet,"  said  she.  "  Not  to-day  — 
not  till  I've  thought." 

359 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


She  glanced  quickly  at  him.  Over  his  impassive  face, 
so  beautifully  regular  and,  to  her,  so  fascinating,  there 
passed  a  quick  dark  shadow,  and  she  knew  that  he  was 
suffering.  He  laughed  quietly,  his  old  careless,  indiffer 
ent  laugh. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can  answer,"  said  he.  "  You  have 
answered." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  sharply. 

"  You  have  refused." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  Donald?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  To  hesitate  over  a  proposal  is  to  refuse,"  said  he 
with  gentle  raillery.  "  A  man  is  a  fool  who  does  not 
understand  and  sheer  off  when  a  woman  asks  for  time." 

"  You  know  that  I  love  you,"  she  cried. 

"  I  also  know  that  you  love  something  else  more. 
But  it's  finished.  Let's  talk  about  something  else." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  tell  you  why  I  hesitate?  "  begged 
she. 

"  It  doesn't  matter." 

"  But  it  does.  Yes,  I  do  refuse,  Donald.  I'll  never 
marry  you  until  I  am  independent.  You  said  a  while 
ago  that  what  I've  been  through  had  made  a  woman  of 
me.  Not  yet.  I'm  only  beginning.  I'm  still  weak  — 
still  a  -coward.  Donald,  I  must  and  will  be  free." 

He  looked  full  at  her,  with  a  strange  smile  in  his  bril 
liant  eyes.  Said  he,  with  obvious  intent  to  change  the 
subject:  "Mrs.  Brindley's  very  unhappy  that  you 
haven't  been  to  see  her." 

"  When  you  asked  me  to  marry  you,  the  only  reason 
I  almost  accepted  was  because  I  want  someone  to  sup 
port  me.  I  love  you  —  yes.  But  it  is  as  one  loves 

360 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


before  one  has  given  oneself  and  has  lived  the  same 
life  with  another.  In  the  ordinary  sense,  it's  love  that 
I  feel.  But  —  do  you  understand  me,  dearest  ?  —  in 
another  sense,  it's  only  the  hope  of  love,  the  belief  that 
love  will  come." 

He  stopped  short  and  looked  at  her,  his  eyes  alive  with 
the  stimulus  of  a  new  and  startling  idea. 

"  If  you  and  I  had  been  everything  to  each  other, 
and  you  were  saying  '  Let  us  go  on  living  the  one  life  ' 
and  I  were  hesitating,  then  you'd  be  right.  And  I 
couldn't  hesitate,  Donald.  If  you  were  mine,  nothing 
could  make  me  give  you  up,  but  when  it's  only  the  hope 
of  having  you,  then  pride  and  self-respect  have  a  chance 
to  be  heard." 

He  was  ready  to  move  on.  "  There's  something  in 
that,"  said  he,  lapsed  into  his  usual  seeming  of  impas- 
siveness.  "  But  not  much." 

"  I  never  before  knew  you  to  fail  to  understand." 

"  I  understand  perfectly.  You  care,  but  you  don't 
care  enough  to  suit  me.  I  haven't  waited  all  these  years 
before  giving  a  woman  my  love,  to  be  content  with  a 
love  seated  quietly  and  demurely  between  pride  and  self- 
respect." 

"  You  wouldn't  marry  me  until  I  had  failed,"  said 
she  shrewdly.  "  Now  you  attack  me  for  refusing  to 
marry  you  until  I've  succeeded." 

A  slight  shrug.  "  Proposal  withdrawn,"  said  he. 
"  Now  let's  talk  about  your  career,  your  plans." 

"  I'm  beginning  to  understand  myself  a  little,"  said 
she.  "  I  suppose  you  think  that  sort  of  personal  talk 
is  very  silly  and  vain  —  and  trivial." 

361 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  he,  "  it  isn't  absolutely 
necessary  to  understand  oneself.  One  is  swept  on  in 
the  same  general  direction,  anyhow.  But  understand 
ing  helps  one  to  go  faster  and  steadier." 

"  It  began,  away  back,  when  I  was  a  girl  —  this  idea 
of  a  career.  I  envied  men  and  despised  women,  the 
sort  of  women  I  knew  and  met  with.  I  didn't  realize 
why,  then.  But  it  was  because  a  man  had  a  chance  to 
be  somebody  in  himself  and  to  do  something,  while  a 
woman  was  just  a  —  a  more  or  less  ornamental  be 
longing  of  some  man's  —  what  you  want  me  to  become 
now." 

"  As  far  as  possible  from  my  idea." 

66  Don't  you  want  me  to  belong  to  you?  " 

"  As  I  belong  to  you." 

"  That  sounds  well,  but  it  isn't  what  could  happen. 
The  fact  is,  Donald,  that  I  want  to  belong  to  you  — 
want  to  be  owned  by  you  and  to  lose  myself  in  you. 
And  it's  that  I'm  fighting." 

She  felt  the  look  he  was  bending  upon  her,  and 
glowed  and  colored  under  it,  but  did  not  dare  to  turn 
her  eyes  to  meet  it.  Said  he:  "  Why  fight  it?  Why 
not  be  happy  ?  " 

"Ah,  but  that's  just  it,"  cried  she.  "I  shouldn't 
be  happy.  And  I  should  make  you  miserable.  The 
idea  of  a  career  —  the  idea  that's  rooted  deep  in  me 
and  can't  ever  be  got  out,  Donald;  it  would  torment 
me.  You  couldn't  kill  it,  no  matter  how  much  you 
loved  me.  I'd  yield  for  the  time.  Then,  I'd  go  back  — 
or,  if  I  didn't,  I'd  be  wretched  and  make  you  wish  you'd 


362 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  I  understand,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  believe  it,  but  I 
understand." 

"  You  think  I'm  deceiving  myself,  because  you  saw  me 
wasting  my  life,  playing  the  idler  and  the  fool,  pre 
tending  I  was  working  toward  a  career  when  I  was 
really  making  myself  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  Stanley 
Baird's  mistress." 

"  And  you're  still  deceiving  yourself.  You  won't  see 
the  truth." 

"  No  matter,"  said  she.  "  I  must  go  on  and  make  a 
career  —  some  kind  of  a  career." 

"At  what?" 

"  At  grand  opera." 

"  How'll  you  get  the  money?  " 

"  Of  Stanley,  if  necessary.  That's  why  I  asked  his 
address.  I  shan't  ask  for  much.  He'll  not  refuse." 

"  A  few  minutes  ago  you  were  talking  of  self-re 
spect." 

"  As  something  I  hoped  to  get.  It  comes  with  in 
dependence.  I'll  pay  any  price  to  get  it." 

"  Any  price?  "  said  he,  and  never  before  had  she  seen 
his  self-control  in  danger. 

"  I  shan't  ask  Stanley  until  my  other  plans  have 
failed." 

"What  other  plans?" 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  Mrs.  Belloc  for  the  money.  She 
could  afford  to  give  —  to  lend  —  the  little  I'd  want. 
I'm  going  to  ask  her  in  such  a  way  that  it  will  be  as 
hard  as  possible  for  her  to  refuse.  That  isn't  ladylike, 
but  —  I've  dropped  out  of  the  lady  class." 

"  And  if  she  refuses  ?  " 

363 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  Then  I'll  go  one  after  another  to  several  very 
rich  men  I  know,  and  ask  them  as  a  business  propo 
sition." 

"  Go  in  person,"  advised  he  with  an  undisguised  sneer. 

"  I'll  raise  no  false  hopes  in  them,"  she  said.  "  If 
they  choose  to  delude  themselves,  I'll  not  go  out  of  my 
way  to  undeceive  them  —  until  I  have  to." 

"  So  this  is  Mildred  Gower?  " 

"  You  made  that  remark  before." 

"Really?" 

"  When  Stanley  showed  you  a  certain  photograph  of 
me." 

"  I  remember.     This  is  the  same  woman." 

"  It's  me,"  laughed  she.  "  The  real  me.  You'd  not 
care  to  be  married  to  her?  " 

"  No,"  said  he.  Then,  after  a  brief  silence :  "  Yet, 
curiously,  it  was  that  woman  with  whom  I  fell  in  love. 
No,  not  exactly  in  love,  for  I've  been  thinking  about 
what  you  said  as  to  the  difference  between  love  in  posse 
and  love  in  esse,  to  put  it  scientifically  —  between  love 
as  a  prospect  and  love  as  a  reality." 

"  And  I  was  right,"  said  she.  "  It  explains  why 
marriages  go  to  pieces  and  affairs  come  to  grief.  Those 
lovers  mistook  love's  promise  to  come  for  fulfillment. 
Love  doesn't  die.  It  simply  fails  to  come  —  doesn't 
redeem  its  promise." 

"  That's  the  way  it  might  be  with  us,"  said  he. 

"  That's  the  way  it  would  be  with  us,"  rejoined  she. 

He  did  not  answer.  When  they  spoke  again  it  was 
of  indifferent  matters.  An  hour  and  a  half  after  they 
started,  they  were  at  Mrs.  Belloc's  again.  She  asked 

364 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


him  to  have  tea  in  the  restaurant  next  door.  He  de 
clined.  He  went  up  the  steps  with  her,  said: 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  luck.  Moldini  is  the  best  teacher 
in  America." 

"  How  did  you  know  Moldini  was  to  teach  me  ?  "  ex 
claimed  she. 

He  smiled,  put  out  his  hand  in  farewell.  "  Crossley 
told  me.  Good-by." 

"  He  told  Crossley !  I  wonder  why."  She  was  so 
interested  in  this  new  phase  that  she  did  not  see  his 
outstretched  hand,  or  the  look  of  bitter  irony  that  came 
into  his  eyes  at  this  proof  of  the  subordinate  place  love 
and  he  had  in  her  thoughts. 

"  I'm  nervous  and  anxious,"  she  said  apologetically. 
"  Moldini  told  me  he  had  some  scheme  about  getting 
the  money.  If  he  only  could!  But  no  such  luck  for 
me,"  she  added  sadly. 

Keith  hesitated,  debated  with  himself,  said :  "  You 
needn't  worry.  Moldini  got  it  —  from  Crossley. 
Fifty  dollars  a  week  for  a  year." 

"  You  got  Crossley  to  do  it?  " 

"  No.  He  had  done  it  before  I  saw  him.  He  had 
just  promised  Moldini  and  was  cursing  himself  as  '  weak 
and  soft.'  But  that  means  nothing.  You  may  be  sure 
he  did  it  because  Moldini  convinced  him  it  was  a  good 
speculation." 

She  was  radiant.  She  had  not  vanity  enough  where 
he  was  concerned  to  believe  that  he  deeply  cared,  that  her 
joy  would  give  him  pain  because  it  meant  forgetful- 
ness  of  him.  Nor  was  she  much  impressed  by  the  ex 
pression  of  his  eyes.  And  even  as  she  hurt  him,  she 

365 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


made  him  love  her  the  more ;  for  he  appreciated  how 
rare  was  the  woman  who5  in  such  circumstances,  does 
not  feed  her  vanity  with  pity  for  the  poor  man  suffer 
ing  so  horribly  because  he  is  not  to  get  her  precious 
self. 

It  flashed  upon  her  why  he  had  not  offered  to  help 
her.  "  There  isn't  anybody  like  you,"  said  she,  with  no 
explanation  of  her  apparent  irrelevancy. 

"  Don't  let  Moldini  see  that  you  know,"  said  he,  with 
characteristic  fine  thoughtfulness  for  others  in  the  midst 
of  his  own  unhappiness.  "  It  would  deprive  him  of  a 
great  pleasure." 

He  was  about  to  go.  Suddenly  her  eyes  filled  and, 
opening  the  outer  door,  she  drew  him  in.  "  Donald,"  she 
said,  "  I  love  you.  Take  me  in  your  arms  and  make 
me  behave." 

He  looked  past  her;  his  arms  hung  at  his  sides.  Said 
he :  "  And  to-night  I'd  get  a  note  by  messenger  saying 
that  you  had  taken  it  all  back.  No,  the  girl  in  the 
photograph  —  that  was  you.  She  wasn't  made  to  be  my 
wife.  Or  I  to  be  her  husband.  I  love  you  because 
you  are  what  you  are.  I  should  not  love  you  if  you 
were  the  ordinary  woman,  the  sort  who  marries  and 
merges.  But  I'm  old  enough  to  spare  myself  —  and 
you  —  the  consequences  of  what  it  would  mean  if  we 
were  anything  but  strangers  to  each  other." 

"  Yes,  you  must  keep  away  —  altogether.  If  you 
didn't,  I'd  be  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other,  but 
just  a  poor  failure." 

"  You'll  not  fail,"  said  he.  "  I  know  it.  It's  writ 
ten  in  your  face."  He  looked  at  her.  She  was  not 

366 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


looking  at  him,  but  with  eyes  gazing  straight  ahead 
was  revealing  that  latent,  inexplicable  power  which, 
when  it  appeared  at  the  surface,  so  strongly  dominated 
and  subordinated  her  beauty  and  her  sex.  He  shut  his 
teeth  together  hard  and  glanced  away. 

"  You  will  not  fail,"  he  repeated  bitterly.  "  And 
that's  the  worst  of  it." 

Without  another  word,  without  a  handshake,  he  went. 
And  she  knew  that,  except  by  chance,  he  would  never 
see  her  again  —  or  she  him. 

Moldini,  disheveled  and  hysterical  with  delight  and 
suspense,  was  in  the  drawing-room  —  had  been  there 
half  an  hour.  At  first  she  could  hardly  force  her  mind 
to  listen;  but  as  he  talked  on  and  on,  he  captured  her 
attention  and  held  it. 

The  next  day  she  began  with  Moldini,  and  put  the 
Lucia  Rivi  system  into  force  in  all  its  more  than  con 
ventual  rigors.  And  for  about  a  month  she  worked 
like  a  devouring  flame.  Never  had  there  been  such 
energy,  such  enthusiasm.  Mrs.  Belloc  was  alarmed  for 
her  health,  but  the  Rivi  system  took  care  of  that;  and 
presently  Mrs.  Belloc  was  moved  to  say,  "  Well,  I've 
often  heard  that  hard  work  never  harmed  anyone,  but 
I  never  believed  it.  Now  I  know  the  truth." 

Then  Mildred  went  to  Hanging  Rock  to  spend  Satur 
day  to  Monday  with  her  mother.  Presbury,  reduced 
now  by  various  infirmities  —  by  absolute  deafness,  by 
dimness  of  sight,  by  difficulty  in  walking  —  to  where 
eating  was  his  sole  remaining  pleasure,  or,  indeed,  dis 
traction,  spent  all  his  time  in  concocting  dishes  for  him- 

367 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


self.  Mildred  could  not  resist  —  and  who  can  when 
seated  at  table  with  the  dish  before  one's  eyes  and  under 
one's  nose.  The  Rivi  regimen  was  suspended  for  the 
visit.  Mildred,  back  in  New  York  and  at  work  again, 
found  that  she  was  apparently  none  the  worse  for  her 
holiday,  was  in  fact  better.  So  she  drifted  into  the 
way  of  suspending  the  regimen  for  an  evening  now 
and  then  —  when  she  dined  with  Mrs.  Brindley,  or  when 
Agnes  Belloc  had  something  particularly  good.  All 
went  well  for  a  time.  Then  —  a  cold.  She  neglected 
it,  feeling  sure  it  could  not  stay  with  one  so  soundly 
healthy  through  and  through.  But  it  did  stay;  it 
grew  worse.  She  decided  that  she  ought  to  take  medi 
cine  for  it.  True,  starvation  was  the  cure  prescribed 
by  the  regimen,  but  Mildred  could  not  bring  herself  to 
two  or  three  days  of  discomfort.  Also,  many  people 
told  her  that  such  a  cure  was  foolish  and  even  danger 
ous.  The  cold  got  better,  got  worse,  got  better.  But 
her  throat  became  queer,  and  at  last  her  voice  left  her. 
She  was  ashamed  to  go  to  Moldini  in  such  a  condition. 
She  dropped  in  upon  Hicks,  the  throat  specialist.  He 
"  fixed  her  up  "  beautifully  with  a  few  sprayings.  A 
week  —  and  her  voice  left  her  again,  and  Hicks  could 
not  bring  it  back.  As  she  left  his  office,  it  was  raining 
—  an  icy,  dreary  drizzle.  She  splashed  her  way  home, 
in  about  the  lowest  spirits  she  had  ever  known.  She 
locked  her  door  and  seated  herself  at  the  window  and 
stared  out^  while  the  storm  raged  within  her.  After 
an  hour  or  two  she  wrote  and  sent  Moldini  a  note: 
"  I  have  been  making  a  fool  of  myself.  I'll  not  come 
again  until  I  am  all  right.  Be  patient  with  me.  I 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


don't  think  this  will  occur  again."  She  first  wrote 
"  happen."  She  scratched  it  out  and  put  "  occur  "  in 
its  place.  Not  that  Moldini  would  have  noted  the  slip ; 
simply  that  she  would  not  permit  herself  the  satisfac 
tion  of  the  false  and  self-excusing  "  happen."  It  had 
not  been  a  "  happen."  It  had  been  a  deliberate  folly, 
a  lapse  to  the  Mildred  she  had  buried  the  day  she 
sent  Donald  Keith  away.  When  the  note  was  on  its 
way,  she  threw  out  all  her  medicines,  and  broke  the 
new  spraying  apparatus  Hicks  had  instructed  her  to 
buy. 

She  went  back  to  the  Rivi  regime.  A  week  passed, 
and  she  was  little  better.  Two  weeks,  and  she  began 
to  mend.  But  it  was  six  weeks  before  the  last  traces  of 
her  folly  disappeared.  Moldini  said  not  a  word,  gave 
no  sign.  Once  more  her  life  went  on  in  uneventful, 
unbroken  routine  —  diet,  exercise,  singing  —  singing, 
exercise,  diet  —  no  distractions  except  an  occasional 
visit  to  the  opera  with  Moldini,  and  she  was  hating 
opera  now.  All  her  enthusiasm  was  gone.  She  simply 
worked  doggedly,  drudged,  slaved. 

When  the  days  began  to  grow  warm,  Mrs.  Belloc  said : 
"  I  suppose  you'll  soon  be  off  to  the  country  ?  Are  you 
going  to  visit  Mrs.  Brindley  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Then  come  with  me." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  can't  do  it." 

"  But  you've  got  to  rest  somewhere." 

"  Rest?  "  said  Mildred.     "  Why  should  I  rest?  " 

Mrs.  Belloc  started  to  protest,  then  abruptly 
changed.  "  Come  to  think  of  it,  why  should  you? 

369 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


You're  in  perfect  health,  and  it'll  be  time  enough  to  rest 
when  you  '  get  there.'  " 

"  I'm  tired  through  and  through,"  said  Mildred, 
"  but  it  isn't  the  kind  of  tired  that  could  be  rested  ex 
cept  by  throwing  up  this  frightful  nightmare  of  a 
career." 

"  And  you  can't  do  that." 

"  I  won't,"  said  Mildred,  her  lips  compressed  and  her 
eyes  narrowed. 

She  and  Moldini  —  and  fat,  funny  little  Mrs.  Moldini 
—  went  to  the  mountains.  And  she  worked  on.  She 
would  listen  to  none  of  the  suggestions  about  the  dan 
gers  of  keeping  too  steadily  at  it,  about  working  one 
self  into  a  state  of  staleness,  about  the  imperative 
demands  of  the  artistic  temperament  for  rest,  change, 
variety.  "  It  may  be  so,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Brindley. 
"  But  I've  gone  mad.  I  can  no  more  drop  this  routine 
than  —  than  you  could  take  it  up  and  keep  to  it  for  a 
week." 

"I'll  admit  I  couldn't,"  said  Cyrilla.  "And  Mil 
dred,  you're  making  a  mistake." 

"  Then  I'll  have  to  suffer  for  it.  I  must  do  what 
seems  best  to  me." 

"  But  I'm  sure  you're  wrong.  I  never  knew  anyone 
to  act  as  you're  acting.  Everyone  rests  and  freshens 
up." 

Mildred  lost  patience,  almost  lost  her  temper. 
"  You're  trying  to  tempt  me  to  ruin  myself,"  she  said. 
"  Please  stop  it.  You  say  you  never  knew  anyone  to 
do  as  I'm  doing.  Very  well.  But  how  many  girls 
have  you  known  who  have  succeeded?  " 

370 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Cyrilla  hesitatingly  confessed  that  she  had  known 
none. 

"  Yet  you've  known  scores  who've  tried." 
"  But  they  didn't  fail  because  they  didn't  work  enough. 
Many  of  them  worked  too  much." 

Mildred  laughed.  "  How  do  you  know  why  they 
failed?  "  said  she.  "  You  haven't  thought  about  it  as 
I  have.  You  haven't  lived  it.  Cyrilla,  I  served  my 
apprenticeship  at  listening  to  nonsense  about  careers. 
I  want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  inspiration,  and  ar 
tistic  temperament,  and  spontaneous  genius,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  lies.  Moldini  and  I  know  what  we  are 
about.  So  I'm  living  as  those  who  have  succeeded  lived 
and  not  as  those  who  have  failed." 

Cyrilla  was  silenced,  but  not  convinced.  The  amaz 
ing  improvement  in  Mildred's  health,  the  splendid  slim 
strength  and  suppleness  of  her  body,  the  new  and  stable 
glories  of  her  voice  —  all  these  she  knew  about,  but  they 
did  not  convince  her.  She  believed  in  work,  in  hard 
work,  but  to  her  work  meant  the  music  itself.  She  felt 
that  the  Rivi  system  and  the  dirty,  obscure  little  Mol 
dini  between  them  were  destroying  Mildred  by  destroy 
ing  all  "  temperament "  in  her. 

It  was  the  old,  old  criticism  of  talent  upon  genius. 
Genius  has  always  won  in  its  own  time  and  generation 
all  the  world  except  talent.  To  talent  contempora 
neous  genius,  genius  seen  at  its  patient,  plodding  toil, 
seems  coarse  and  obvious  and  lacking  altogether  in 
inspiration.  Talent  cannot  comprehend  that  creation 
is  necessarily  in  travail  and  in  all  manner  of  unlove- 
liness. 

371 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


Mildred  toiled  on  like  a  slave  under  the  lash,  and 
Moldini  and  the  Rivi  system  were  her  twin  relentless 
drivers.  She  learned  to  rule  herself  with  an  iron  hand. 
She  discovered  the  full  measure  of  her  own  deficiencies, 
and  she  determined  to  make  herself  a  competent  lyric 
soprano,  perhaps  something  of  a  dramatic  soprano. 
She  dismissed  from  her  mind  all  the  "  high  "  thoughts, 
all  the  dreams  wherewith  the  little  people,  even  the 
little  people  who  achieve  a  certain  success,  beguile  the 
tedium  of  their  journey  along  the  hard  road.  She  was 
not  working  to  "  interpret  the  thought  of  the  great 
master  "  or  to  "  advance  the  singing  art  yet  higher  "  or 
even  to  win  fame  and  applause.  She  had  one  object 
—  to  earn  her  living  on  the  grand  opera  stage,  and 
to  earn  it  as  a  prima  donna  because  that  meant  the  best 
living.  She  frankly  told  Cyrilla  that  this  was  her  ob 
ject,  when  Cyrilla  forced  her  one  day  to  talk  about  her 
aims.  Cyrilla  looked  pained,  broke  a  melancholy  silence 
to  say: 

"  I  know  you  don't  mean  that.  You  are  too  in 
telligent.  You  sing  too  well." 

"Yes,  I  mean  just  that,"  said  Mildred.  "A  liv 
ing." 

"At  any  rate,  don't  say  it.  You  give  such  a  false 
impression." 

"To  whom?  Not  to  Crossley,  and  not  to  Moldini, 
and  why  should  I  care  what  any  others  think?  They 
are  not  paying  my  expenses.  And  regardless  of  what 
they  think  now,  they'll  be  at  my  feet  if  I  succeed,  and 
they'll  put  me  under  theirs  if  I  don't." 

"  How  hard  you  have  grown,"  cried  Cyrilla. 
372 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  How  sensible,  you  mean.  I've  merely  stopped  be 
ing  a  self-deceiver  and  a  sentimentalist." 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear,  you  are  sacrificing  your  char 
acter  to  your  ambition." 

"  I  never  had  any  real  character  until  ambition  came," 
replied  Mildred.  "  The  soft,  vacillating1,  sweet  and 
weak  thing  I  used  to  have  wasn't  character." 

"  But,  dear,  you  can't  think  it  superior  character  to 
center  one's  whole  life  about  a  sordid  ambition." 

"Sordid?" 

"  Merely  to  make  a  living." 

Mildred  laughed  merrily  and  mockingly.  "  You  call 
that  sordid?  Then  for  heaven's  sake  what  is  high? 
You  had  left  you  money  enough  to  live  on,  if  you  have 
to.  No  one  left  me  an  income.  So,  I'm  fighting  for 
independence  —  and  that  means  for  self-respect.  Is 
self-respect  sordid,  Cyrilla !  " 

And  then  Cyrilla  understood  —  in  part,  not  alto 
gether.  She  lived  in  the  ordinary  environment  of  flap 
doodle  and  sweet  hypocrisy  and  sentimentality;  and 
none  such  can  more  than  vaguely  glimpse  the  reali 
ties. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  summer  Moldini  said : 

"  It's  over.     You  have  won." 

Mildred  looked  at  him  in  puzzled  surprise. 

"  You  have  learned  it  all.  You  will  succeed.  The 
rest  is  detail." 

"  But  I've  learned  nothing  as  yet,"  protested  she. 

"  You  have  learned  to  teach  yourself,"  replied  the 
Italian.  "  You  at  last  can  hear  yourself  sing,  and  you 
know  when  you  sing  right  and  when  you  sing  wrong, 

373 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


and  you  know  how  to  sing  right.  The  rest  is  easy. 
Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Gower,  you  will  work  now!  " 

Mildred  did  not  understand.  She  was  even  daunted  by 
that  "  You  will  work  now!  "  She  had  been  thinking 
that  to  work  harder  was  impossible.  What  did  he  ex 
pect  of  her?  Something  she  feared  she  could  not  realize. 
But  soon  she  understood  —  when  he  gave  her  songs, 
then  began  to  teach  her  a  role,  the  part  of  Madame 
Butterfly  herself.  "  I  can  help  you  only  a  little  there," 
he  said.  "  You  will  have  to  go  to  my  friend  Ferreri 
for  roles.  But  we  can  make  a  beginning." 

She  had  indeed  won.  She  had  passed  from  the  stage 
where  a  career  is  all  drudgery  —  the  stage  through 
which  only  the  strong  can  pass  without  giving  up  and 
accepting  failure  or  small  success.  She  had  passed 
to  the  stage  where  there  is  added  pleasure  to  the  drudg 
ery,  for,  the  drudgery  never  ceases.  And  what  was  the 
pleasure  ?  Why,  more  work  —  always  work  —  bring 
ing  into  use  not  merely  the  routine  parts  of  the  mind, 
but  also  the  imaginative  and  creative  faculties.  She 
had  learned  her  trade  —  not  well  enough,  for  no  su 
perior  man  or  woman  ever  feels  that  he  or  she  knows 
the  trade  well  enough  —  but  well  enough  to  begin  to  use 
it. 

Said  Moldini :  "  When  the  great  one,  who  has 
achieved  and  arrived,  is  asked  for  advice  by  the  sweet, 
enthusiastic  young  beginner,  what  is  the  answer?  Al 
ways  the  same :  *  My  dear  child,  don't !  Go  back 
home,  and  marry  and  have  babies.'  You  know  why 
now?" 

And  Mildred,  looking  back  over  the  dreary  drudgery 
374 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


that  had  been,  and  looking  forward  to  the  drudgery 
jet  to  come,  dreary  enough  for  all  the  prospects  of  a 
few  flowers  and  a  little  sun  —  Mildred  said :  "  Indeed 
I  do,  maestro." 

"  They  think  it  means  what  you  Americans  call  mor 
als  —  as  if  that  were  all  of  morality !  But  it  doesn't 
mean  morals ;  not  at  all.  Sex  and  the  game  of  sex  is 
all  through  life  everywhere  —  in  the  home  no  less  than 
in  the  theater.  In  town  and  country,  indoors  and  out, 
sunlight,  moonlight,  and  rain  —  always  it  goes  on. 
And  the  temptations  and  the  struggles  are  no  more  and 
no  less  on  the  stage  than  off.  No,  there  is  too  much 
talk  about  *  morals.'  The  reason  the  great  one  says 
*  don't '  is  the  work."  He  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"  They  do  not  realize,  those  eager  young  beginners. 
They  read  the  story-books  and  the  lives  of  the  great 
successes  and  they  hear  the  foolish  chatter  of  common 
place  people  —  those  imbecile  *  cultured  '  people  who 
know  nothing!  And  they  think  a  career  is  a  triumphal 
march.  What  think  you,  Miss  Gower  —  eh?  " 

"  If  I  had  known  I'd  not  have  had  the  courage,  or 
the  vanity,  to  begin,"  said  she.  "  And  if  I  could  re 
alize  what's  before  me,  I  probably  shouldn't  have  the 
courage  to  go  on." 

"  But  why  not?  Haven't  you  also  learned  that  it's 
just  the  day's  work,  doing  every  day  the  best  you  can?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  on,"  rejoined  she. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  looking  at  her  with  awed  admira 
tion.  "  It  is  in  your  face.  I  saw  it  there,  the  day  you 
came  —  after  you  sang  the  '  Batti  Batti '  the  first  time 
and  failed." 

375 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  There  was  nothing  to  me  then." 

"  The  seed,"  replied  he.  "  And  I  saw  it  was  an  acorn, 
not  the  seed  of  one  of  those  weak  plants  that  spring 
up  overnight  and  wither  at  noon.  Yes,  you  will  win." 
He  laughed  gayly,  rolled  his  eyes  and  kissed  his  fingers. 
"  And  then  you  can  afford  to  take  a  little  holiday,  and 
fall  in  love.  Love!  Ah,  it  is  a  joyous  pastime  — 
for  a  holiday.  Only  for  a  holiday,  mind  you.  I  shall 
be  there  and  I  shall  seize  you  and  take  you  back  to  your 
art." 

In  the  following  winter  and  summer  Crossley  dis 
closed  why  he  had  been  sufficiently  interested  in  grand 
opera  to  begin  to  back  undeveloped  voices.  Crossley 
was  one  of  those  men  who  are  never  so  practical  as 
when  they  profess  to  be,  and  fancy  themselves,  imprac 
tical.  He  became  a  grand-opera  manager  and  organ 
ized  for  a  season  that  would  surpass  in  interest  any 
New  York  had  known.  Thus  it  came  about  that  on  a 
March  night  Mildred  made  her  debut. 

The  opera  was  "  Faust."  As  the  three  principal 
men  singers  were  all  expensive  —  the  tenor  alone, 
twelve  hundred  a  night  —  Crossley  put  in  a  compara 
tively  modestly  salaried  Marguerite.  She  was  seized 
with  a  cold  at  the  last  moment,  and  Crossley  ventured  to 
substitute  Mildred  Gower.  The  Rivi  system  was  still  in 
force.  She  was  ready  —  indeed,  she  was  always  ready, 
as  Rivi  herself  had  been.  And  within  ten  minutes  of 
her  coming  forth  from  the  wings,  Mildred  Gower  had 
leaped  from  obscurity  into  fame.  It  happens  so,  often 
in  the  story  books,  the  newly  gloriously  arrived  one 

376 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


having  been  wholly  unprepared,  achieving  by  sheer  force 
of  genius.  It  occurs  so,  occasionally,  in  life  —  never 
when  there  is  lack  of  preparation,  never  by  force  of 
unassisted  genius,  never  by  accident.  Mildred  suc 
ceeded  because  she  had  got  ready  to  succeed.  How  could 
she  have  failed? 

Perhaps  you  read  the  stories  in  the  newspapers  — 
how  she  had  discovered  herself  possessed  of  a  marvelous 
voice,  how  she  had  decided  to  use  it  in  public,  how 
she  had  coached  for  a  part,  had  appeared,  had  become 
one  of  the  world's  few  hundred  great  singers  all  in  a 
single  act  of  an  opera.  You  read  nothing  about  what 
she  went  through  in  developing  a  hopelessly  uncertain 
and  far  from  strong  voice  into  one  which,  while  not 
nearly  so  good  as  thousands  of  voices  that  are  tried 
and  cast  aside,  yet  sufficed,  with  her  will  and  her  con 
centration  back  of  it,  to  carry  her  to  fame  —  and 
wealth. 

That  birdlike  voice!  So  sweet  and  spontaneous,  so 
true,  so  like  the  bird  that  "  sings  of  summer  in  full 
throated  ease !  "  No  wonder  the  audience  welcomed  it 
with  cheers  on  cheers.  Greater  voices  they  had  heard, 
but  none  more  natural  —  and  that  was  Moldini. 

He  came  to  her  dressing-room  at  the  intermission. 
He  stretched  out  his  arms,  but  emotion  overcame  him, 
and  he  dropped  to  a  chair  and  sobbed  and  cried  and 
laughed.  She  came  and  put  her  arms  round  him  and 
kissed  him.  She  was  almost  calm.  The  great  fear  had 
seized  her — Can  I  keep  what  I  have  won? 

"  I  am  a  fool,"  cried  Moldini.     "  I  will  agitate  you." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  that,"  said  she.  "  I  am  nerv- 
377 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


ous,  yes,  horribly  nervous.  But  you  have  taught  me 
so  that  I  could  sing,  no  matter  what  was  happening." 
It  was  true.  And  her  body  was  like  iron  to  the 
touch. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  though  he  knew  her  and  had 
seen  her  train  herself  and  had  helped  in  it,  he  marveled. 
"  You  are  happy  ?  "  he  said  eagerly.  "  Surely  —  yes, 
you  must  be  happy." 

"  More  than  that,"  answered  she.  "  You'll  have  to 
find  another  word  than  happiness  —  something  bigger 
and  stronger  and  deeper." 

"  Now  you  can  have  your  holiday,"  laughed  he. 
"  But  " —  with  mock  sternness  — "  in  moderation !  He 
must  be  an  incident  only.  With  those  who  win  the  high 
places,  sex  is  an  incident  —  a  charming,  necessary  in 
cident,  but  only  an  incident.  He  must  not  spoil  your 
career.  If  you  allowed  that  you  would  be  like  a  mother 
who  deserts  her  children  for  a  lover.  He  must  not 
touch  your  career !  " 

Mildred,  giving  the  last  touches  to  her  costume  before 
the  glass,  glanced  merrily  at  Moldini  by  way  of  it. 
"  If  he  did  touch  it,"  said  she,  "  how  long  do  you  think 
he  would  last  with  me  ?  " 

Moldini  paused  half-way  in  his  nod  of  approval,  was 
stricken  with  silence  and  sadness.  It  would  have  been 
natural  and  proper  for  a  man  thus  to  put  sex  beneath 
the  career.  It  was  necessary  for  anyone  who  devel 
oped  the  strong  character  that  compels  success  and 
holds  it.  But  —  The  Italian  could  not  get  away  from 
tradition;  woman  was  made  for  the  pleasure  of  one 
man,  not  for  herself  and  the  world. 

378 


THE  PRICE  SHE  PAID 


"  You  don't  like  that,  maestro?  "  said  she,  still  ob 
serving  him  in  the  glass. 

"  No  man  would,"  said  he,  with  returning  cheerful 
ness.     "  It  hurts  man's  vanity.     And  no  woman  would,  j, 
either ;  you  rebuke  their  laziness  and  their  dependence !  " 

She  laughed  and  rushed  away  to  fresh  triumphs. 


THE   END 


(1) 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


50m-l,'69(J5643s8)2373 — 3A,1 


• 


STORED  AT  NBLF 


3  2106  00213  7161 


